


Chasing Pegasus

by Varghona



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars alternate universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horse Racing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst and Feels, F/M, Gen, Horse Racing, Horses, M/M, Reconciliation, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9966272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varghona/pseuds/Varghona
Summary: Luke Skywalker and Wedge Antilles were horse racing's two hottest jockeys until scandal ended Luke's career and tragedy nearly ended Wedge's life.  Now, thirty years later, they have a chance for one last shot at redemption.   Meanwhile, Luke's daughter Rey struggles to make her own mark in the highly competitive West Coast jockey colony, where Poe Dameron reigns as the leading rider and Rey's cousin Ben works for the megastable First Order Racing Inc.





	1. Chapter 1

"...Every horse story is a love story."  
\- Jane Smiley, _A Year at the Races_

***

The day Rey tells her father that she wants to be a jockey, like he used to be, he doesn't say anything at first. He just stares at her, different expressions skating across his face like filmy clouds racing ahead of a storm.

"Come with me," he says finally, just when she's about to give up on hearing his opinion at all.

She follows him into his office and he sits down at his computer, clicking his way through a number of files. Rey notices his hand trembling on the mouse, shaking the cursor unintentionally; it takes him a few tries to hit the right windows. Finally he pushes his chair back and angles the old, boxy monitor so she can get a better look. (Her father is no Luddite--he keeps abreast of new technology--but he never buys new if something old can be refurbished.)

"Watch this," he says. "Then tell me you want to be a jockey."

It's old race footage from Santa Anita. There's something about the quality of the color and focus that says 1980's, like it was transferred from videotape; she's watched enough of her father's old races that she has a feel for these things. They're breaking from the Santa Anita chute, which means it has to be a mile and a quarter race--a "classic" distance. There's no sound (or maybe he has the sound down) so Rey can't hear the call, but when the gate opens and the horses fly out, she recognizes the bright orange colors of Alliance Stables on a dark bay horse that breaks sharp but drops back as others gun for the front. 

As the field stretches out around the first turn and enters the back straight, Rey tries to watch the entire field while still keeping one eye on the Alliance orange silks, apprehension coiling in her belly. Her father clearly means for this to be a cautionary tale, so it's not going to end well. The only question is who's going to get hurt. 

She glances at her father. He's not watching at all. He sits with his hands folded, his greying head bowed. The lines in his face are like gouges inscribed by pain rather than years. 

He never talks about why he quit. 

They're shuffling on the backstretch, horses beginning to move up and position themselves for the drive, a couple of front runners beginning to tire and move backwards in the pack. The Alliance colors are easy to track as the dark bay carrying them weaves through the press of sweating shoulders and churning hindquarters; the jockey rides with daring, absolute confidence, and a skill that leaves Rey wide-eyed and breathless, her heart pounding. It's a thing of beauty the way he rides, saving ground and threading seams just as they open. She leans forward, unconsciously moving her hands as if she held the reins, and she feels a leap of exhilaration in her chest as the horses charge out of the turn, facing the camera nearly head-on, and the Alliance horse bursts clear out of the pack, squeezing between two hard-driving competitors with only one horse and clear track ahead of it. 

It's enough to make her forget this is a cautionary tale. 

Things happen so fast Rey cannot determine the exact chain of events, other than the lead horse ducks to the right unexpectedly, and the charging Alliance horse clips heels with it. Four, maybe five horses suddenly go down in a chain reaction pileup, some crashing to the ground, a few others completely flipping over. Jockeys spill all over the track. Every few fractions of a second, there's a flash of orange getting bounced around under hooves and falling horses.

The camera shifts to catch the finish--the lead horse passing under the wire by some distance, another half-dozen streaming behind including one riderless horse--then moves back to the wreck at the top of the stretch. Most of the horses are back on their feet, spooked and uncertain as the outriders arrive to catch them. But one chestnut horse staggers as its near front leg flops around at mid-cannon bone like an empty sock, while another horse--a dark bay--struggles in vain to get to its feet, hindquarters seemingly useless as its front legs scrabble for purchase on the track.

Her father shuts off the footage, even though there's no sign that's the end of it. Only then does he look up, and that's to stare at his desktop image--a picture of Rey schooling one of the off-track Thoroughbreds they rehabilitate and retrain here at New Hope Ranch. For a long time neither of them say anything.

"Which race was that?" Rey asks, to break the silence. She's watched a lot of old races, but she doesn't exactly go hunting for accidents on YouTube.

"Breeder's Cup Classic, 1986. It was a rare worst-case-scenario, but you get the point," her father says quietly. "How do you love horses, and reconcile that love with racing them?"

Rey's given this some thought already. "Because accidents happen, like Lucy breaking her leg just playing in the paddock last year. Because there's abuse in every equine discipline--I don't think racing is inherently better or worse. Horses can be abused even if they're just kept as backyard pets--my guess is that the rate of abuse or neglect is higher there, actually, because it's so unregulated and humane organizations never know unless they're tipped off. It's not the racing itself, but the people involved. They can have the animal's best interest at heart, or not."

"People like your Aunt Leia and Uncle Han, you mean?"

"The sport would probably be better off with more people like them, yes." She hesitates, then makes a little gesture at the computer, as if the video was still going. "Is that why did you quit riding?" She actually has a pretty good idea why--she knows how to use Google, for Pete's sake--but someday it'd be nice to hear his side of the story.

"It's...complicated." And he gives that little nod, the one where his mouth tightens up and she knows he's reached the end of anything he wants to say on a topic.

Rey studies her father's face--weary, bearded, looking years older than he actually is. It's such a contrast from the pictures she's seen of him from his racing days. In those pictures he looks vibrant and vital and _alive,_ more alive than she's ever seen him look in real life.

"Maybe I'll have your luck," she says. "Please. I want to try."

He closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. "I'll think about it. Give me time. I need to make some calls."

***

She talks things over with Chirrut and Baze later, as she often does.

(Well, talks it over with Chirrut. Baze isn't much of a talker. Although there's something about his straightforward way of handling shit--a philosophy that boils down to, "If you can't do anything about it, find work to do so at least you'll be useful"--that Rey finds comforting.)

"He'll come around to the idea, Sunshine," Chirrut reassures her, as he slides his hands down Tiny's sleek black foreleg, feeling for heat or swelling in the knee.

Tiny (registered with the Jockey Club as "Tintorro") is a grandson of A. P. Indy and a near-perfect copy of his famous predecessor, from conformation to his rich chocolate bay color to the white stripe down his face. The only way Tiny did not live up to his grandsire's legacy was in his track performance. Baze found him in a slaughter pen. Tiny's intelligence and eager-to-please nature made them initially think of retraining him as a therapy horse, but he turned out to be so utterly bombproof, now their goal is to find him a second career as a police mount. Baze has been working to build up his topline so he can bear the weight of a 30 lb. saddle and heavy rider for long hours at a time, but Chirrut is concerned about keeping Tiny sound through this process. 

"Why doesn't he ever like to talk about his racing days?" Rey asks.

"It's...complicated," Chirrut says, echoing Dad's words. He moves his hands down Tiny's cannon bone, then his fetlock and pastern. "Those were your father's best years, but he's got bad memories too."

"Not just him," Baze grunts. He's standing at Tiny's head, holding the lead rope in one hand and rubbing the horse under his forelock with the other. Tiny sighs and lowers his head, soft brown eyes blissful and half-closed.

"That's true," Chirrut admits. "He knows you want this, believe me..." he angles his head up so Baze and Rey can see his grin, then he turns his focus back to Tiny's joints. "But you have to understand he has mixed feelings about it. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't, either."

Chirrut exhales a soft groan as he rises from his crouch and rests one hand on Tiny's broad shoulder. He's still spry and probably in better shape than ninety percent of men his age, but as he's fond of pointing out...in the war between age and knee joints, sooner or later age wins. "The leg feels good, Baze," he says. "You can take him on out." He gives Tiny one last pat and steps back from the horse, and Baze leads Tiny out towards the exercise ring. 

Rey passes Chirrut his guide cane. He always has it handy, though he doesn't need it too much around the stable here--they're scrupulous about keeping things in order, and he knows every board and fencepost of the barn and surrounding paddocks. He and Baze have been salvaging former racers here since before Rey was born, and sometimes she feels like they've done something similar for Dad. They've certainly been like grandparents to her.

"What I don't understand is, why even say he'd think about it if he's so dead against it," Rey says.

Chirrut smiles. "Because you're his daughter, in every way. When he was your age, his Uncle told him he couldn't be a jockey because it was too dangerous. He was breaking Quarter Horses from the gate at the county fair that same weekend. Luke knows the lure of the forbidden...better than most."

Rey purses her lips to the side as she tries to reconcile that story with the cautious, melancholy ( _old_ her underbrain whispers) man she knows as Dad.

***

Cautious, melancholy, and even old he might be, but Rey knows from experience that her father keeps his word. He asked for time; she puts it out of her mind and doesn't pester him, confident that no news is good news--it means he's still thinking, and if he's thinking, he hasn't decided to say no.

A week after her summer break begins, Uncle Han and his assistant trainer Chewie show up at New Hope. After a rib-crushing greeting in Dad's office--they haven't seen Rey for a few years and Chewie (who's built like Sasquatch and looks a little like something off of _Duck Dynasty_ ) gives bear hugs--Uncle Han gets down to business. 

"Del Mar opens soon," he tells her. "Come with us and we'll start you off as a hot walker. Things work out, you'll get to gallop a few horses in the mornings. We'll see how it goes from there. In the meantime you ask questions and soak up everything you can. Learn from us old farts." He grins crookedly. 

Rey can't hide her own grin. Her face aches, in fact, from how hard she's smiling. "I won't let you down!" It's a huge break, to be able to start out working for Solo Racing--a gift, and a mark of trust. She can't screw this up.

"It's a shame Wedge won't be there, you'd learn a ton from him. He's riding at Saratoga this summer. Del Mar's got great weather, but Saratoga's got the Grade Ones. Don't worry though--if all goes well, you'll run into each other at Santa Anita."

Dad sits up suddenly, his eyes turning sharp and focused on Uncle Han. If he were a horse, his ears would be pricked straight. "How is he?"

"Riding like the devil, and twice as stubborn." Uncle Han looks over at Dad lazily. "You could always call him, y'know."

"Or Facebook," Chewie adds helpfully.

"Yeah, it ain't like he's gone underground. Unlike _some_ saddle monkeys I could name." 

"I am _not_ underground," Dad replies, with a flash of heat. "And anyway...it's complicated."

"Then come with us. Come help your kid learn the business. Or hell, go to Kentucky and help Leia at the farm."

"And do what? She's got Cassian, Jyn, Bodhi, most of the old crew. Chirrut and Baze need me here." For a moment he looks like he's about to snap off more, but he stops and his gaze flicks to Rey, who's been listening with wide open ears. "Rey, you'd better start packing, if you're gonna leave tonight with Han and Chewie. We'll bore you with all our talk about old times anyway."

Rey's anything but bored, but she knows a dismissal when she hears it. She walks out the office, her mind already making lists of everything she'll need to pack--when suddenly she stops, a strange yearning pain making a fist-sized knot in her chest. She turns around and points at her father.

"When I ride my first race--" she makes it a when, not an if--"you _had better_ be there."

Dad's face crumples a little, and he stands and goes to her all in a rush. He takes her in his arms and holds her close.

"I'll be there, Sunshine," he promises. And that, more than anything else, eases her heart, because she knows Luke Skywalker keeps his promises. He presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, then pulls back just enough to look at her; his eyes, which usually seem so faded, are bright shining blue. And just a little wet. "I'll even watch," he laughs brokenly. "I'll be eating Rolaids like candy, but I'll watch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real 1986 Breeder's Cup Classic went off without a hitch and was won by a horse named Skywalker.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedge gets some unexpected news.

Wedge wakes up at five in the morning. He doesn't have to be at the track until six, but he likes to give himself the extra half-hour to ease his body through a series of stretches and breathing exercises. He tries not to think of it as yoga--a word he associates with psychobabble, hippies, vegans, and his ex-wife--but that's basically what it is. He can't argue with results though. It's improved his strength, balance, flexibility, and endurance, and he has to admit that it helps with focus and stress management, too.

He needs all the help he can get.

Breakfast, such as it is, is a cup of strong hot tea. He's carrying fluid this morning, but tea is a mild diuretic and he can sweat any extra water weight before he has to ride today. After nearly forty years as a professional jockey, Wedge can judge his own weight to within a pound even before he gets on the scale.

Lunch, if he takes it, will be a piece of fruit, maybe a banana for potassium. If he feels weak, he'll have an egg or protien bar at some point during the day. Before each race he rides tomorrow, he'll take a swallow of Coca-Cola for the sugar rush--a trick he learned from Cajun jockeys during a winter spent at the Fair Grounds racecourse in New Orleans. Dinner will be the big meal, four ounces of fish or chicken and a cup of steamed veg. Sometimes he'll splurge and have more, if he doesn't have any light mounts the next day and if he feels like his body's demanding it. He understands a lot more about nutrition these days and he's more in tune with the ebb and flow of his body's needs. 

(He's fully aware that what it _really_ needs is for him to stop trying to keep it twenty pounds under a normal healthy weight, but that would mean hanging up his silks, and after having experienced retirement once already, Wedge is not anxious to do it again.)

He doesn't flip anymore. There was a period when he controlled his weight by eating whatever he wanted and just throwing it up later. Flipping was, and still is, a common practice--common enough that many jock's rooms have a dedicated toilet for it--but he hasn't done it in years. He hasn't had a smoke or a drink in years, either. Other than being in his fifties and in constant pain and having so many screws holding his bones together that he sets off metal detectors, Wedge is actually in the best shape of his life. 

He just hopes it will show in his performance. He hopes the trainers will notice and put him on live mounts. Wedge is an old veteran in a young man's game, a game where you have to win to stay relevant. Saratoga's meet starts tomorrow. He only has three mounts scheduled for opening day, and on paper none of them look like winners.

But Wedge has a grim and determined focus as he leaves for the track. One thing Wedge takes personal pride in--one thing he is known, respected, and fucking _feared_ for--is that he rides every race to win. So he's not on the favorite? Challenge accepted. 

They don't call Saratoga the graveyard of favorites for nothing.

***

The low morning sun casts a golden glow over Saratoga's red-and-white awnings and jewel-green infield as the last shreds of mist cling to the turf course and main track. The grandstand is mostly empty; no crowd noise disturbs the peace. Horses alone and in pairs jog or gallop the dirt oval for their works, and the steady drumming of their hooves is the predominant sound, the heartbeat of the track at morning.

Wedge works a horse for Pletcher's barn today, a big chestnut four-year-old named Ollie The Great. Wedge perches high in the saddle as Ollie canters in the middle of the track, loosening up for the breeze to come. To his right, a young horse and lead pony trot clockwise up the track, moving towards the grandstand; along the far outside rail mounted outriders stand still, watching the traffic and ready to move the moment they see an infraction or a loose horse. To his left, closer to the inner rail, a horse guns past in full flight, leaving a cloud of dust settling slowly in its wake. 

Just like on a highway, slower traffic keeps to the right, faster traffic passes on the left. 

This is Wedge's favorite part of the day, aside from racing. He loves when it's just him and the horse, no distractions, nothing to worry about but just keeping time in his head and listening to his mount. The whole world narrows down to the wind roaring in his ears, the arched neck in front of him, the pull and release of powerful muscles between his stirrup irons, the play of the horse's mouth through the reins in his hands. The horse takes him beyond the limitations of his body, letting him fly without wings. 

On horseback he's something more than himself, and he forgets how to be afraid.

It's always been this way. On the ground, he's awkward in his own skin and rarely at ease with other people, never certain of their motives. With horses, it's different. Horses don't lie to you.

 _Run, run, want to run!_ Ollie says, with the way he grabs at the bit, the way he strides out boldly, full of eager energy. _Soon, soon,_ Wedge promises, with the shift of his weight, the way he takes a closer hold of the reins. He murmurs nonsense to the horse--it's not the words but the tone that matters, and he knows Ollie's listening as the tulip-curved ears flicker back and forth, catching the sound of his voice and then focusing on the track ahead.

A quick glance behind to make sure they're clear, then Wedge eases Ollie over towards the inside rail. The horse bounds eagerly, tearing into the dirt as he works up to racing speed, flattening out as Wedge drops down low over the horse's body. 

His knees scream at him when he does this, but pain is his constant companion these days, the background noise of his life. He's pretty much learned to divide it into "alien chestburster" and "everything else," with everything else just being something to ignore or deal with later, if it must be dealt with at all.

The wind tears by in a jet engine roar as Ollie flies past the five-eights pole, and Wedge starts ticking off the seconds in his head. Pletcher wants to see a strong five furlong breeze, but not a bullet work--the idea is to see if the horse is ready to race in a week, but not wear him out--and if the trainer likes the way Wedge rides him now, this could become a regular mount. So what the trainer wants, the trainer gets. Wedge senses within a few strides that they're going too fast, so he eases off a bit on Ollie, murmuring to him again, and the horse shortens stride just enough to finish the first furlong in twelve seconds.

That's a good sharp time, but what Wedge likes is that Ollie is running within himself. The horse is eager and aggressive, but not unwilling to rate. His ears are pricked upright now, indicating that he's not going all out. Wedge murmurs to him again, soothing nonsense to ease him off some more and save his energy for the stretch.

The poles blur past and Wedge keeps ticking off the seconds in his head. When he was an apprentice he actually needed to count the numbers but now it's almost unconscious the way it happens. _Twenty-five and one at the quarter. A little too slow._ He nudges Ollie and the big horse leaps into the bridle again, forelegs tearing at the track, hindquarters rocketing him forward. Wedge rides still and low, moving as little as possible; his legs are the shock absorbers, moving with the horse, while his upper body crouches flat over Ollie's withers. It's akin to perching on the hood of a truck jouncing down a rough highway at forty miles per hour, while trying to keep your upper body so still that you can balance a glass of water between your shoulder blades.

And there's nothing to keep you in place in case of sudden swerves, bumps, or stops.

Back when Wedge started off galloping horses for Booster Terrik, he learned to ride a bit higher in the saddle and with slightly longer stirrups, like most European jockeys, pumping energetically in the stretch drive. It wasn't until after he moved to America, and saw Luke Skywalker in action, that he thought _I want to ride like that._

The universe has a sick sense of humor. The most perfect rider he's ever seen hung up his silks too soon and all but went into hiding. And Wedge, who knows in his heart he's not half the rider Luke was, has the riding titles and awards that should have been Luke's.

But when it comes to Luke and Wedge, there's so many things that should have been.

Wedge's internal clock warns him of the time: _Forty-nine and change for the half. Time to hustle._ He shifts his weight and flicks the right rein, signaling for Ollie to change leads. He curses himself too, for not being completely focused and completely cognizant of how fast they're going.

He's fortunate that Ollie is so up in the bridle and waiting for his cue. The horse changes leads smartly, his right foreleg striking out with all the aggression of a boxer throwing punches. Wedge scrubs his hands along the horse's neck, giving him encouragement, though it's not needed too much. Ollie drives home the last furlong in an aggressive eleven-and-two, entirely willing and strong. 

The horse is sharp. Wedge isn't so sure about himself.

***

"What happened out there?" Tycho asks later, as they walk under the shady trees on the backside. Pletcher was satisfied with the workout, but Tycho is Wedge's closest friend--once his competitor, now his agent--and he was able to tell that Wedge zoned out for a moment. Tycho knows him better than anyone.

"Memories happened. Hazard of getting old." Wedge would like to leave it at that. 

It's a true enough answer; Saratoga is the kind of place where memories haunt the shed rows, the grandstand, the paddock. There's an old-fashioned country fair atmosphere to the place, with its white fences and dark green barns, shady picnic benches, signs with red-and-gold scrolled lettering like something off Main Street, USA. The track is over 150 years old, the oldest operational track in the United States--which granted is kind of laughable when compared with, say, the Curragh or Newmarket--but that's still plenty of history, plenty of hoofprints and footprints alike marked into the dust. The graveyard of favorites is a literal graveyard, too; the incomparable filly Go For Wand is buried in the infield. 

For Wedge, the memories are personal. This is where he first started riding when he came to America--a 19-year-old kid from Glasgow, with an accent so thick in those days he might as well have been speaking another language as he stalked trainers every morning, begging for work. This is where he survived the inevitable culture shocks, this is where he won his first riding title, this is where he planted his flag and put himself on the map of American racing, winning the 1980 Travers Stakes in a dramatic--and televised--upset. (What else, at Saratoga?)

This is where he first met Luke. And it's where Luke's riding career effectively ended....

"Earth to Wedge," Tycho says. His voice is quiet but it snaps Wedge back to the Here and Now. "You've got _that_ look. You know, you really could just _call_ him."

"Luke wants his privacy. Let's go talk to Asmussen," Wedge changes the subject and breaks off to the right, striding away quickly towards the barn in question. "Have you seen Asmussen yet? Maybe he's got a mount."

"Already seen him," Tycho says, but he follows Wedge's lead anyway. Tycho's a good agent--well-spoken, horse-savvy, handsome and appealing, and never loses his cool. The perfect faceman for a jockey who's notorious for bouncing back and forth between "awkward but friendly nice guy" and "irascible little Scottish fireball who won't hesitate to tell you to fuck off."

"Did you let him know I'm interested in that two-year-old filly, the big one that ran off with her exercise rider? I know I could work with her."

"Yeah, he said he'd think about it. Look, I did get a last-minute pickup for tomorrow. It's for First Order."

"Oh." Wedge scowls. He has a pleasant face under most circumstances, but his scowl has been known to make much larger men take a step back.

Tycho isn't intimidated though. It's his job to get work for his clients, not pass moral judgement--no matter how he might be tempted. "I know you don't care for Hux, but this is a live mount. And First Order's so big, it's hard to find a Grade One stakes these days without at least one of their horses starting."

"More's the pity," Wedge mutters. Of _course_ they would be passing near the First Order barns, or he'd expound on his opinion of Snoke's operation.

The sound of water splashing from a hose catches their attention, and they look towards the source of the sound; down the lane to the left, a First Order Thoroughbred stands almost perfectly still as a groom and assistant bathe it. The workers wear matching black windbreakers with "First Order Racing Inc." embroidered on the backs, the row is kept impeccably neat, the horse is a gorgeous specimen and looks like it's in great condition. Everything about First Order gives the impression of an operation that works like a well-oiled machine.

And yet, Wedge doesn't like the way the horse just stands there as the grooms rinse it and scrape excess water from its dark coat. It should be alert, playing at the end of its nose chain, playing with the water...most horses enjoy the bath ritual. This one looks like it hasn't enjoyed anything for a long time.

"By the way, I heard something interesting from Han," Tycho says, changing the subject as they walk on.

"How's he doing? Summer by the sea again?" Wedge tries to smile, but doesn't do a very good job of it. Mention of Han reminds him who Han and Leia's son has gone to work for. He hasn't seen Ben around Saratoga. Presumably he's overseeing a First Order operation at another track, maybe Del Mar.

Things could get awkward if Ben and Han ran into each other there. Wedge isn't sure if he should be glad he's got a whole continent between Saratoga and Del Mar, or disappointed that he won't be there to help Han slap some sense into the boy.

Boy? No, Ben is a grown man who's made his own choices. _He must be close to thirty. Fuck, I'm old,_ Wedge thinks.

"You know it. Says he has a mount for you for the Pacific Classic, if you feel like flying out there for the day. Might be worth it, for a million-dollar race." 

Wedge nods; winner's share of that purse is six hundred thousand, and the jockey's cut of that is ten percent. Sixty thousand would be a nice addition to Syal and Myri's university fund. But even if the money wasn't tempting, Han has been a loyal friend for years.

"It's Han. Of course I'll be there."

Tycho smirks. "Good, I'll let him know. Oh, and by the way. He passed on this little tidbit--he picked up some new help. A young lady name of Rey Skywalker."

Wedge stops dead in his tracks, turning to face Tycho head-on. "Not little Rey."

Tycho nods once. "Little Rey is the same age we were when we started riding."

"She wants to race? And Luke's _letting_ her?" Wedge can't keep the horror out of his voice. He loves his work, but he wouldn't wish it on his own children. 

Tycho shrugs. "From what Han tells me, she's a chip off the old block."

"Then why doesn't he make her--" Wedge cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, throwing his hands up. He of all people should know you don't make a Skywalker do anything. 

"Look, between Han and Chewie looking after her, she'll be fine."

"You mean _Luke's not even with her?"_ Wedge's voice rises, disturbing the peace as it rings down along the shed rows, drawing horses to look out from their stalls curiously. Drawing a few irritated glances from grooms and assistant trainers, too. He lowers his voice, but he can't hide the anger in it. "You're telling me that not even his own daughter risking her neck is enough to draw him down from Nirvana Mountain or wherever the fuck he's fucked off to--"

"New Hope Ranch."

"Whatever."

"Wedge, she's not racing yet."

_"Yet."_

"She's just walking hots for Han right now, and galloping a few of his older horses. This is just to give her a chance to see if she likes it. If she starts racing at all, it won't be until the Santa Anita meet."

Wedge chews the inside of his cheek, thinking things over. It doesn't take him long. "Santa Anita? Right then. We're _definitely_ doing winter in California."

He turns on his heel and strides away, muttering to himself. So he totally misses Tycho pumping his fist once, before the agent follows him to Asmussen's barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who'd like to see a five furlong breeze in action, here's a video from jockey Calvin Borel's POV as he exercises a horse at Churchill Downs. There are plenty of similar videos on YouTube, and they're good ones, but what I love about this one is the affectionate, encouraging way Borel talks to his horse all the way around. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPz2zNKpMkY


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn deals with Baby Jesus, a case of hives, mutilated birds...and Ben Solo.

Del Mar Thoroughbred Club is an adobe-colored complex speckled with towering palm trees, caught in the P formed by Camino Del Mar and Jimmy Durante Boulevard, literally across the road from the Pacific Ocean. If Saratoga reflects the East Coast old money that built it, Del Mar is the flash and glamour of California new money and San Diego's young, tech-savvy population--the brainchild of Bing Crosby and other Golden Age of Hollywood stars, newly renovated and updated to attract millennials. 

Not that Finn really cares. The backside of Del Mar--the backside of any track, really--is a world apart. It's 4:30 AM and time for him to go to work.

At other tracks, he might sleep in a tack room or on a cot in an empty stall. Del Mar provides actual housing for 800 or so grooms, in a two-story complex of 10x10 rooms with one common bathroom. The grooms call it Motel 6. 

It's still better than some of the foster care homes he grew up in.

He works seven days a week and pretty much wears the same thing day in, day out. Boots, jeans, t-shirt. He slips his arms into a black chambray button-down with "First Order Racing, Inc." embroidered on the pocket and back, but he doesn't bother with the buttons yet. Tomorrow he'll button up, when he has to make himself presentable for the walking ring. There's a black embroidered baseball cap to match, too, and he puts that on last. Finn hates hats, but First Order has a thing about image, and they pay grooms better than almost any other stable. For $9.25 an hour, he'll wear whatever they want, so long as it includes boots. When a horse steps on your foot, you don't want to be wearing sneakers.

The sky is still ink-black and the backside lit only by pools of yellow electric light by the time Finn gets to First Order's barn, but the shedrow foreman, Phasma, has already been through to give the horses their morning feed. Of the 28 horses First Order has at Del Mar, Finn is responsible for three of them. 

He checks the set list for their training schedule; Khetanna is due for a breeze when the first set goes out, Ebon Hawk and Rapid Ranger are scheduled to jog later in the morning.

***

Khetanna is like a ballerina--he even calls her Anna because it sounds like a ballerina's name to him. She's a medium-sized grey filly, beautifully balanced and athletic, lean and quick. She's all nerves though, and it's very hard to keep weight on her. She's a cribber, too--biting any solid edge she can get her teeth on, flexing her neck muscles, and sucking in air with a strange grunting noise. They've tried everything short of surgery to get her to stop it, but once a horse starts cribbing, it's almost like they get addicted to it.

He's read all sorts of conflicting stuff about cribbing: that it releases endorphins, that it causes colic, it's a stable vice and it's bad for a horse, it's the result of bad feeding practices and it's just the horse burping...Finn doesn't know what to believe. All he knows is that he checks Anna's anti-cribbing collar every morning, to make sure it isn't causing lesions on her neck.

The filly whuffles a greeting at him, moving forward and lowering her head for scritches. She likes them best under her forelock, right above the splashy white star on her rain-grey face, and that's where Finn scratches her, checking for lesions where the cribbing collar is strapped behind her ears. No sign of skin aggravation, but he does find a good bit of straw in her mane, which he gently plucks out while she enjoys the attention. She probably picked up the straw from lying down to sleep last night, which doesn't happen often with her.

"Good girl," Finn murmurs. "You rest those legs."

Her legs are in fact his first order of business. He buckles a halter over her finely-sculpted head, ties her loosely--she likes to be able to look around--and unwraps the thick standing bandages that protected her legs last night. 

Next Finn takes her temperature with a digital thermometer; after about thirty seconds it beeps at 100 degrees, square in the middle of normal range. A good sign. He takes down her hay net, water bucket, and feed tub--empty, another good sign. They'll be scrubbed clean later, while she's out for exercise. That's when he'll muck out her stall, too. 

He picks her hooves, examining them carefully. The adage is "no hoof, no horse" and nowhere is this more true than in racing. Every horse he rubs, he's learned to be hyperaware of any changes with the hoof, signs of cracks, bulges, heat, or soreness. The frog--the fleshy wedge on the sole of the hoof--needs to be large and thick, firm with just a little bit of give; an unhealthy frog, from badly-fitted shoes or illness or injury, will start to look ratty and diminished, indicating poor blood flow. The frog acts not only as a shock absorber, but essentially functions as a secondary heart; compared to humans, horses have few blood vessels in their legs, and the blood doesn't flow efficiently through their legs without help. When Khetanna puts weight on her foot, it compresses the frog which pumps blood back up the leg; when she steps off, blood flows back down into it.

From a certain point of view, you could say a horse has five hearts.

Her feet check out, so Finn moves on to the rest of her. He grooms her with fast, firm swipes--first with a rubber glove to loosen surface dust, hair, and crud, then with a stiff brush, going over her with a soft cloth to finish and combing out her mane and tail. 

After her breeze she'll get an ice bath for her legs, then a sports massage, poultices, and a clay pack for her hooves. She's currently sound. However she's a granddaughter of Unbridled's Song and along with speed and athleticism his get have a reputation for unsoundness. Finn doesn't know if anyone's done a statistical study, but he's heard it said that when veterinary surgeons see the name Unbridled's Song in a pedigree, they start envisioning blank checks made out to them. 

Anna's exercise rider arrives with tack while Finn's putting the rundown bandages on her back legs, which means Finn has about twenty minutes to get her tacked up. The rider is already in flak vest and helmet; his whip sticks up out the back of his jeans like an antenna. "Mornin', Finn!" 

"Hey, Baby Jesus." Finn doesn't know the dude's real name, everyone just calls him Baby Jesus. On the backside, you're known either by your first name or a nickname--Nines, Slip, Gator, Popeye, Snake. Big Mike, Little Mike, Dirty Mike, Happy Mike. "Finn" itself is a nickname, born of the initials on his driver's license. Once you get tagged with a name, it follows you forever, from track to track. Baby Jesus is kinda old--his brown hair's going grey and he's got wrinkles around his cheerful blue eyes--but he's still Baby Jesus to everyone who knows him. "What's the good word today?"

"Man, I been sayin' nothin' but bad ones since I got up." The rider nods at Khetanna. "Anything I should know about her?"

"She's smart...a little spooky, just be cool and she'll settle." Finn kneels down to check her forelegs, now that they've been out of the standing bandages for awhile. They're cool and dry and show no sign of swelling, which is exactly what he wants to see. "Hey, can I ask a question? How'd you get to be called Baby Jesus?"

"Ahhhh." Baby Jesus grins. "Can't tell you, 'cause then I'd have to kill you. But it involved a cowboy, a Scotsman, and unholy amounts of alcohol. There's pictures floating around somewhere. Find 'em and you'll know the story."

***

Ebon Hawk is an asshole. 

Finn doesn't take it personal, because horse assholery is different from the human version. People can be, and often are, genuinely malevolent. Horses are just herd animals and in a herd you have a pecking order. Some horses have the kind of personality that constantly tests boundaries, constantly seeks to dominate. Ebon Hawk is an extreme case.

In Finn's opinion, it doesn't help that the colt is stuck in a stall for 23 hours a day; horses are meant to be out in pasture, among other horses, and they can get psycho without space and good socialization. That's at least part of Hawk's problem, but he is genuinely temperamental, too. The colt's nickname on the backside is Hannibal, as in Lecter; he's only two, but already has a reputation for carnage. He bit the fingers off his last groom, and Finn has seen the colt actually grab a fully-grown man by the shoulder, lift him off his feet, and hurl him over a fence. When he's worked in company, he'll try to savage any horse that starts to pass him. 

The most gruesome evidence of the colt's territorialism, however, is what Finn finds in his stall this morning--a pigeon bitten nearly in half, and two little brown sparrows crushed almost beyond recognition. Hawk watches, his eyes glittering like chips of obsidian, as Finn removes the sad corpses, but he makes no move--yet--to bite his groom.

He doesn't bite people as much these days ever since Finn figured out a way to keep the colt's mouth occupied: he hung a rope outside Hawk's box, next to the hay net, and tied a half-dozen knots in the rope. It's since become Hawk's favorite toy. The colt will spend hours worrying at the knots, untying them one by one, and when he's got them all undone he'll bellow for Finn to come tie some more. They've managed to come to a sort of understanding that way.

Still doesn't mean he won't kick at the slightest provocation, though, so Finn has to be careful working around him, especially unwrapping his legs. Hawk likes for things to be done exactly the same way, every day. That means Finn does all his work with the colt starting on his front near side, working around to his rear, then coming back up to finish on the front far side. Every time. Hawk loves a good rough rub-down on his shoulders--he actually groans and closes his eyes, leaning into Finn's hands as he's groomed-- but hates getting rubbed on his flanks. And taking his temperature? Finn has to glide his hand slowly down Hawk's back down to his tail, so the horse feels him coming. Simply walking up to him and inserting a rectal thermometer without warning will earn you a kick that knocks you into next week.

Sometimes Finn wonders if it's a heightened prey reaction--if maybe any kind of touch on his back end ignites the colt's fight-or-flight instincts. No telling how he'll react the first time a rider uses a stick on him.

Finn has thoughts like these all the time--why each horse acts the way it does--but he's learned to mostly keep his theories to himself. The last time he dared to say anything beyond reporting the horse's basic status, Phasma gave him a look of disdain and sneered, "I see we have a _horse whisperer_ in the barn." A couple of the other grooms had a laugh about that, but then Phasma lowered her voice and said more quietly, "You don't want Mr. Solo to think you're second-guessing him. _He_ is Mr. Snoke's assistant trainer."

Yeah. Roger that. Message received. Finn might be crazy enough to dream about being a trainer himself someday, but not crazy enough to lose his current job over it. So he bites his tongue.

Hawk is unraced at this time, but he's got huge talent and Finn knows they're aiming him for the Del Mar Futurity, with hopes for the Breeder's Cup Juvenile at the end of the year. But when Finn checks Hawk's legs again after he's been groomed and his feet picked, he detects some heat and swelling in his shins. It's only a little, but even the smallest abnormality is definitely something he needs to bring to Ben Solo's attention as soon as possible. 

The young Solo is kind of a prick. Which is weird, because Old Man Solo is a pretty down-to-earth guy, at least what Finn's seen of him. Just goes to show, breeding isn't everything.

***

Finn can't help but feel sorry for Rapid Ranger. The chestnut colt is a big sweet lunk who can't seem to catch a break. He's three and hasn't broken his maiden yet; he's got talent and tries hard every time, but so far he's had terrible luck. Part of it is bad rides--the three times he raced, he showed good speed but his jockeys got him into traffic. Part of it is health issues. He had bucked shins at two, and early this year lost training due to fever. Now he has allergies, manifesting as hives breaking out all over his neck and shoulders.

Finn finds a few handfuls of feed remaining in the bottom of his feed tub; when he takes the colt's temperature, it's slightly raised. Just a hair over 101. Probably an indicator of stress more than actual fever, but it just underscores that Ranger is not well. 

Ranger swings his head around to Finn, rubbing his neck against his groom--he's a sweet-natured animal but in this case it's itchiness, not affection, that makes him do it. 

"Man, Ranger, if it's not one thing it's another," Finn murmurs, scratching the colt on his withers, one of his favorite spots. "But you know what?"

Ranger nickers, watching Finn with the big amber orb of his eye. His ears swivel, one angling towards the sound of Finn's voice while the other points to catch sounds outside the stall.

"You remind me of a story I heard. There was this nun, saw a guy outside her convent, sitting at the bus stop in the rain. He looked sad and shabby and she went out there to him, gave him her last ten dollars and said, 'Don't despair.' The next day he showed up at the convent looking for her and he was happy as could be. He gave her two hundred sixty bucks. She said, 'What's this for?' and he said, 'You were right, sister--Don't Despair came in at twenty-five to one.'"

Ranger snorts and shakes his mane out, moving away from Finn as if to let him know he has no time for corny old jokes.

"Someday your luck's gonna change, buddy. Just hang in there and keep trying. You'll show 'em you're a winner."

"I think that story had whiskers on it when my father was a boy," intones a cool voice just outside the stall--the voice neither amused nor angry, nor indeed indicating any emotion at all. Ben Solo stands there, tall and slim in black jeans and a black First Order shirt. He regards Ranger steadily, paying little attention to Finn.

No matter what else you can say about him, Ben Solo knows horses, and they might be the only thing he cares about. It's hard to tell. The worst thing about dealing with him is he can act so nonchalant right up until the very moment he explodes, which can happen without warning. Even if it's something he should be pissed about, sometimes he just seems to take it in stride. Other times he'll lose his shit over something relatively minor. 

It reminds Finn uncomfortably of the last foster family he lived with--how everyone walked on eggshells around the father, never knowing what might set him off or when the next explosion might come.

Finn straightens up. "Khetanna checked out fine, sir. Hawk's got a little heat and swelling on his shins. Ranger didn't finish all his feed, he's a few degrees above normal, and he's got these hives, sir."

Solo continues to gaze at Ranger, observing the horse, and he gives no indication that he heard Finn. Ranger, for his part, has his head up and he seems to be staring right back at Solo. If Finn was more given to fancy he'd think they were having a silent conversation. Maybe they are, in a way--Solo reading the horse's appearance and body language, the horse studying the assistant trainer in a similar way. Finn can feel the long muscles in Ranger's shoulder begin to tense under his hand.

Ranger is the first to break, shuffing towards the back of his stall.

"I'll have Hawk's rider give him a good warmup and see if the soreness goes away after he stretches out," Solo says. "He _needs_ to jog today. Give his legs an ice bath and hose them afterwards. Then alcohol rub and a poultice. Ranger...just walk him today. I'll tell the vet to give him a cortisone shot. Search his stall, his tack, look for anything new that you might have used on him that could've caused an allergic reaction."

"Yes, sir."

"He's a nice colt. We'll give him every opportunity to prove himself."

And with that, he moves on.

Finn has a hundred other things to do before lunchtime feed at eleven o'clock this morning, but he spends the next five minutes just standing next to Ranger, rubbing his ears and talking to him softly as the horse hides in the shadows at the back of his stall, his head lowered and pushed up against Finn's chest.

He didn't know it when he got on with them, but First Order is a little bit like a school that artificially inflates its test scores by getting rid of the underperforming students. If a horse doesn't "prove itself," Snoke's assistant trainers tell its owners they have a dud. What happens next depends on the owner--some find another trainer, some find another vocation for the horse, and sometimes it goes straight to claiming races until someone else buys the animal--but either way, the horse doesn't stay with First Order.

Finn's thought about leaving, finding some other stable to work for. He has no job security anyway. But he'd have to leave Ranger and Anna...he'd even miss Hawk. 

Who else knows them like he does? Who else knows their quirks, their habits, their likes and dislikes, all the tiny ways they indicate if something's wrong? Who else knows when they had a hair out of place? Who else knows when to be patient and when to be firm with them...who would know to check Anna's collar, or tie knots for Hawk? Who would tell Ranger he was a winner, that he believed in him, and one day he'd prove it to everyone?

They know him and they trust him. If they're hurting, angry, scared, or upset, it's his voice, his hands, that calm them. 

He is theirs. And they're his, no matter whose name is on their ownership papers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke has a secret good-luck ritual.

Luke keeps an old Polaroid in his desk drawer, tucked in the folds of a brittle racing program from Keeneland dated April 22, 1983. He doesn't look at it often; like a relic or talisman, it's best kept under wraps most of the time.

He's already at risk of losing himself to memories and doesn't need the encouragement. 

Today, though, he pulls open the squeaky old drawer. When he takes out the program, the paper feels dusty and fragile between his fingers, as if it's been steadily disintegrating molecule by molecule for thirty-three years. The program falls open readily to the Polaroid: a moment frozen in time, two laughing boys feeding carrots to an ugly, heavy-headed dark grey filly. 

In the picture, Wedge's hair is black as a rook's wing and shaggy and nearly long enough to brush his shoulders. He's all lean, lithe muscle in worn jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt. Luke's heart catches, as it always does, and he closes his eyes and surrenders to the memory.

_Somewhere at the end of the row, one of the grooms has a radio playing loud while he scrubs buckets. Dexys Midnight Runners, "Come On Eileen." Maybe the fifth time Luke's heard it today._

_"She's a rough little heifer," Wedge says with a laugh, holding his palm out flat to offer a piece of carrot. The filly pushes her muzzle into his hand to sieze the snack, then flattens her ears and knocks his arm away when he doesn't immediately produce another treat, as if to say "Well fuck you, too." Luke snaps a carrot into thirds and the filly swings her big head towards him, looking for more goodies._

_"You should've seen her dragging Chewie around yesterday," Luke tells Wedge. "Hey Han, can she actually run or you just gonna keep her around the barn to frighten people?"_

_"Laugh it up, knuckleheads," Han drawls. The camera in his hand clicks, then buzzes and spits out a small white square. Han snatches up the picture and shakes it. "But remember the name. Millennium Falcon. Here, kid--keep this. So you can say you knew her when."_

Han was right. She retired unbeaten, a three-time Horse of the Year. An equine methuselah now at thirty-five, she's fighting laminitis but the last thing Luke heard from Leia was that they think they have it under control. 

Falcon is simply too ornery to die. 

Some might say the same about Wedge Antilles, but Luke knows too well there are traumas the human body simply cannot withstand, no matter how strong the spirit.

"Be safe," Luke whispers, stroking the edge of his finger lightly against Wedge's image. This is his talisman, his protection ritual for one he loves but cannot protect. On the opening day of every race meet, Luke holds to his ritual the way others might pray the rosary or perform salah or recite mantras. 

Luke gazes at the Polaroid for a few more lingering moments. It's the only picture he has of just him and Wedge, even though at that point they'd been lovers for two years. It's strangely intimate, despite the massive horse between them; the horse is their connection, in a place where they dare not join hands or stand too close together. 

They were happy then, even though they had to hide it. They were young and unbroken and the two best damn jockeys in America, riding into the Kentucky Derby on two horses that were already drawing comparisons to Affirmed and Alydar. And though neither he nor Wedge had said the words yet, they loved each other. (Even if they were a bit of an odd couple: the sports press in those days played up the rivalry angle, and, in an oversimplified way, how they embodied the contrasts of American and European racing. Luke Skywalker--hustling fast out of the gate, instinctive, quick-thinking. Wedge Antilles--patient and cerebral and, once he moved, inexorable as a landslide.)

In the picture they are still happy, still innocent, and have no idea just how much shit will hit the fan in a matter of weeks.

Luke closes his eyes, remembering the feel of Wedge's fine hair sifting through his fingers. He often made Wedge go to sleep like that, just by stroking his hair the way you'd calm a young horse.

Eyes still closed, he slips the Polaroid back between the pages of the racing program. He has to do it this way, or else he could spend an hour lingering over it. (He's done so before.) Only then can he tuck the program back in the desk drawer, to leave it until Saratoga's meet ends and Wedge begins another season racing somewhere else. Wedge made it clear, last time they spoke face-to-face, that he had no intention of retiring.

_"Lester Piggott rode until he was sixty. I still have a few years to go yet."_

More and more these days, Luke fears that Wedge will go out not like Lester Piggott, but like George Woolf--his body just giving out one day, slipping into unconsciousness in the saddle and falling headfirst to the track. 

Luke's attention drifts to another picture in the office, this one in a silver frame on a shelf of one of the bookcases. He's about sixteen in this photograph, wearing a blue checked shirt and a cowboy hat and a cheeky grin; Biggs is beside him, tall and rangy, one arm thrown around Luke's shoulders. The other arm hangs low and relaxed, thumb hooked into his leather belt and fingers splayed, drawing attention to his enormous rodeo buckle.

There are some traumas the human body simply cannot withstand, and Luke has seen them happen too many times. 

It might be superstitious foolishness, but ever since Wedge got back to riding, Luke has kept this ritual. It's all he can do. They might be separated by time and words and mutual hurt, but he still keeps Wedge in his heart, somewhere in the bruised space between love and addiction.

He's not looking forward to adding Rey to this ritual, whenever Han finally gives her a leg up. The fact that it will be at least six months before that happens is very little comfort.

It's no comfort that he knew it would come, either. Rey was only ten when she climbed onto the back of a fresh-off-the-track Thoroughbred, even though she'd been expressly forbidden to do so. Of course the horse burst into full flight the moment she took him out on the bridle path. She came back pale as skimmed milk, but with two spots of high color on her little face, bright peppermint-pink smears across her cheeks. 

_"He ran off with me but I stayed on!"_

Luke, Baze, and Chirrut all took turns venting paternal fear and anger at her, each in their own way (ranging from Chirrut's "I'm so very very disappointed in you, young lady" manner to Baze's "That's it, you are _banned_ from riding--for how long? Until I say!" to Luke's own mad scene: "Ohmygodyoucould'vebeenkilleddon'teverdothatagain"/shake child until her teeth rattle/hug her until she can't breathe/rinse and repeat). Rey had been appropriately ashamed and contrite, but the excitement of her ride lingered.

That's when Luke knew she'd ask to race someday. She'd tasted terror and excitement and thrilled to them both. It was the same impulse that drove Luke into rodeo as a young teenager, then Quarter Horse racing--basically the equine equivalent of drag racing--and finally Thoroughbreds, where he had the challenge of strategy combined with the thrill of speed and power. It's one of the things that keeps Wedge in the saddle, driving him to push the limits of what his body can take.

Now that he has a child of his own, Luke understands some of Uncle Owen's outbursts better than ever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Wedge prepares for the day's racing, a trio of horseplayers do the same.

"The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that’s the way to bet."  
-Damon Runyon

***

At Saratoga, a bold-lettered sign stands out bright against the dark green gable truss of the peaked entrance to the jockey quarters:

JOCKEY'S ROOM  
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL  
**ONLY!**

 

In case there's any question about what constitutes "authorized personnel," signs placed at eye-level on posts in the breezeway, and on the dark green door of the jock's room itself, make things clear:

NO ADMITTANCE  
\--EXCEPT--  
JOCKEYS  
AND  
VALETS

All Others Must Check With  
_The Clerk Of Scales_

The jockey quarters include a private courtyard with benches and (perhaps surprisingly) a basketball hoop, a wood-paneled dressing room, a shower, steam room, sauna, laundry, kitchen, workout space, and masseur's room. (And scales. Scales are everywhere.) The complex also houses the silks room, where 3,500 silks--each one unique to the horse owners they represent--create a floor-to-ceiling technicolor forest of rustling fabric. The silks room is the only one where the public can glimpse the inner workings; through long glass panes, they can watch the silks man Walter and his assistant Frankie scurry through the aisles, plucking colorful nylon jackets from the racks with the speed and ease of men who've been at this for years.

As he jogs by the window, Wedge spots Frankie and raises one hand in a quick wave before he rounds the corner and finally allows himself to stagger to a stop in the shade of the breezeway. He bends over double, hands on his thighs, and tries to slow his breathing. The security guard on duty looks him over with some concern.

"Hot one today, Ant-man."

The guard's not kidding. It's only 10:46 AM and already 86 degrees farenheit, with a predicted high of 90. Last night saw a light rain but the sun is already bright and merciless, turning moisture to humidity. You'd have to be crazy to go running, especially bundled under twelve layers of shirts, leggings, and sweats, with towels wrapped around your neck and a hoodie pulled up over your head.

Crazy, or a jockey.

Wedge gulps a big, chest-expanding gust of air, his breath finally coming a little easier. He stands upright and pushes the hood back off his head, revealing silvered hair plastered wetly to his skull, and sweat pouring down his face. The motion puts him off balance for a split second and he takes one steadying step backwards; sweat actually gushes from his shoes.

"Good weather for opening day," Wedge says with a tired grin. "Track's fast. And the fans love it when opening day feels like summer."

Next he checks in with the Clerk of Scales, Tim Kelly. All riders have to report no less than an hour before the 1PM post time, and once they're officially checked in, they're sequestered for the day until the last race is run; the only time they can leave is to head to the paddock for their assigned mounts. Kelly takes one look at Wedge and just shakes his head.

"Wedge, you oughta sweat it off in the hot box."

Wedge pulls one of the towels from around his neck and considers scrubbing his hair with it, but the towel is too soaked to dry off anything. 

"Road work's better than a sauna. Keeps you fit." 

"Like I've ever seen you over twelve soaking wet. Most of the time you're ten anyway." Kelly's recollection is accurate. It's part of his job to know the stripped weight of every single rider in the Saratoga colony. 

Wedge sighs. "It's getting harder to maintain every year."

When he enters the jock's changing room, he walks into a cacophony of bustling preparation and controlled chaos, with riders changing out of street clothes and their red-shirted valets checking gear. It's a cavernous room with high wooden beams; under other circumstances, and with the right decor, the words "rustic luxury" and "open floor plan" might apply. Instead it's lit by harsh fluorescent lights and so crowded with furniture, equipment, and moving parts that it seems smaller than it is. Jockeys all share a locker assignment, or corner, which consists of cubbies for stowing their personal items and gear; their personal saddles, which run in size from one pound to five pounds, get stowed underneath. Helmets and flak vests hang alongside each rider's name, posted above their corner. Benches provide space to sit or lie down, but it's a narrow fit--much of the room is dominated by broad tables with cabinets underneath them. The tables are covered with saddlecloths, foam pads, whips, goggles, boots, brushes, sponges and all the cleaning implements the valets need to do their work. A washing machine and dryer are already in use, rattling and rumbling. The room is full of chatter, gossip, and good-natured trash talk in a mix of English and Spanish, and Wedge gets peppered with greetings and fist-bumps as he makes his way over to his corner.

"Ay Wedge!"

 _"Esta brutal,_ man!"

"Grampa, you keep running stairs in the grandstand and one of these days they gonna scrape you off the floor."

Wedge has to laugh at that last comment--not so much the scraping off the floor part, but the "Grampa." Mike is only five years younger than himself and a total gym rat. It's one of the things they bond over, in their competitive way.

"Laddie, run with me sometime and we'll see who gets scraped off the floor," Wedge replies amiably as he begins peeling the layers of workout clothes off his body. His valet, John, hands him a clean towel.

Mike just laughs. "Question is, can _your_ horses run with _mine_ today?"

There's just enough truth in that to sting a bit, and everyone in earshot knows it. "Oooh, shots fired," Dylan snarks from his corner, across from Wedge. The kid's just a bug boy--an apprentice--but he's got enough sass to hold his own on the trash talk and enough smarts to know when to shut up and listen to his elders. 

"You have a big mouth for a bug." Wedge wads up his sweat-drenched shirt and tosses it at Dylan's head, scoring a direct hit. As Dylan "AUGHS!" and flails, trying to untangle the fabric from around his head, Wedge advises, "Next time don't open it so wide and offer a target."

Despite the digs and put-downs, the atmosphere in the jock's room is a friendly and familial one. Sometimes there's flares of anger after a particularly rough race, but these outbursts are loud and brief. A real fight would bring the wrath of Tim Kelly--and then the Stewards--down on your head, and nobody has time for that shit anyway. You either lodge an objection or you let it go and move on. You don't carry it with you into the next race.

Jockeys everywhere have too much in common to not coexist in the same locker room peacefully. They share a bond of brotherhood that few outsiders can comprehend, despite the desperate competition between them on the track.

As Wedge wraps a towel around his waist, he tries to imagine Celtic and Rangers sharing a locker room. He grins all the way to the showers.

***

It's a point of pride for Saratogans that other tracks might feature tacky opening day gimmicks and events, but all their track has to do to get visitors is open its gates. At 11AM the public begins streaming in and upwards of 40,000 fans and families stake out their favorite race-watching spots. 

The picnic tables are some of the first to fill up; Saratoga offers everything from cheap eats to fine dining, but fans are allowed to bring their own food, and many do, dragging packed coolers and folding chairs to the picnic tables in the shady and expansive back yard, where kids can run around and work off some energy. Giant screens allow you to see the races, if not get up close, and there's a small stage nearby with a country band for entertainment during those precisely 33 minute breaks between races. There are other picnic benches as well--the area at the top of the stretch can be reserved for large parties, and there are tables along the sunny apron if you can't snag one in the shade.

Well-heeled track goers gravitate to Saratoga's luxury suites; although they're not in the best spot to watch the races--right above the first turn--they're the only place with air-conditioning. The clubhouse and the grandstand offer a better view of the races and, despite the lack of a/c, are in high demand.

And then of course there are the railbirds.

***

The Professor has seen better days, but he still carries himself with dignity, as if his wheat-colored seersucker suit were not slightly frayed at the cuffs and button holes. He wears a properly-tied bow tie, and shades his head with a straw boater. The Professor gives an impression of primness and thinness--a prim man in a thin suit, thinning gold hair combed to prim neatness, prim gold wire-frames perched on a long thin nose as he studies the _Daily Racing Form_ , his long thin spidery fingers primly taking careful notes with a gold extra-fine tip pen. Without x-ray vision it's impossible to determine the state of his wallet, but one might assume that's thin as well. 

Arturo is short, barrel-chested, and thick about the middle. He claims to have been a jockey once on the Florida circuit; while the muscle on his forearms seems to back this up, if it's true it was at least thirty years and fifty pounds ago. Today he wears jeans and a Hawaiian shirt in a blue-and-white bamboo print; he favors Hawaiian and bowling shirts, clothes you can roll up and stuff in a duffel bag, then shake the wrinkles out of when you get where you're going. His mustache is a relic from the early 80's, the kind of facial hair cultivated in the hope that what worked for Tom Selleck might work for anyone else too. He shades his eyes from the strong midday sun with a dark blue trilby, tilted low on his round head, and he marks his _DRF_ with a blue mechanical pencil. 

Clad in cargo shorts and an orange Syracuse shirt and baseball cap, B.B. is not in their league--yet--and he knows it. Part of it's due to his age; he'll only be starting his sophomore year at Syracuse next month. The Professor and Arturo have been horseplayers forever, while B.B. discovered the challenge of handicapping only last July. It started as an ill-conceived plan to try and be more interesting to women. B.B. is a pudgy little guy, even shorter than Arturo and lacking the muscle and sinew evident under his layer of padding; he's realistic enough to know that while he's not horrible-looking, he needs to offer something in compensation, and he thought "awesome poker player" might strike the right balance between the numbers-crunching he loves and the aura of cool he associates with professional gamblers.

What he learned is that casinos make money off guys like him. However, a trip to Saratoga with a few school friends ("Dude, it'll be something different, everybody should do it once") taught him that the pari-mutuel system of wagering at the racetrack is a very different beast. You're not betting against the house, you're betting against all the other bettors. And if you bet carefully, you can actually end up making money.

He still has a great deal to learn though.

"No no no, you don't wanna box your trifectas like that," Arturo says, tapping B.B.'s _Racing Form_ with a thick stubby finger. There's black residue embedded around his nails and in the lines of his hands, like he's worked with engines for years and can't get the grease completely off, no matter how much he scrubs.

"Indeed, it's a highly inefficient way to wager," the Professor adds.

"Why's that?" B.B. says. "I can spend a dollar per box and bet every horse in the field. I can't lose!"

"In a one-dollar trifecta box of ten horses, you have seven hundred and twenty possible combinations. That's a seven hundred and twenty dollar bet for a possible payout of...let's say in race number one..." the Professor pauses for half a moment as he calculates the worst-case scenario. "Four dollars and ninety cents, if the favorite and the next two choices finish in the top three."

"Oh," B.B. says dismally, as his visions of winning tickets go up in smoke.

"How many times we gotta tell ya kid? There's no gimmicking your way to the bank." Arturo peers again at B.B.'s notes, tapping two choices where B.B. has scribbled stars. "So who you like most in the second race? The three horse or the five?"

That's been part of the dilemma for B.B. "I dunno, I like both. King Eddie's got that hot apprentice, Davis, so he gets a break in the weights. But Midnight Praise is from First Order's stable and Wedge Antilles is up."

Arturo shakes his head. "Kid, I say this as a former jock--bet the horse, not the rider."

"But with a five-pound weight advantage, King Eddie just might wire the field, all Davis has to do is hang on. And Antilles...well, he's like, Iron Man, he's still riding and winning after all this time."

"Consider the statistical reality that even the top riders only win about thirty percent of their races," the Professor points out. "Despite the break in the weights, an apprentice rider is generally at a disadvantage due to lack of experience, and as for Antilles..." the Professor hesitates. "How do I put this delicately...."

"He's old," Arturo says bluntly. "Great rider, but he's on the wrong side of fifty."

Another railbird, a sunburned old man with a red MAGA hat, decides to put in his two cents. "Antilles is a fag, besides. He and Luke Skywalker had a Brokeback Mountain thing going, way back when."

B.B. feels his jaw drop open--he's not sure how to answer that other than "So?"--but Arturo bristles. "Nobody asked you for ancient history, but since ya brought it up, ya know what? In a couple hours he's gonna be walking to the paddock, so why don't you just tell it to his face. I dare ya to bring that up. I fuckin' _triple dog dare_ ya."

"Language. There are _children_ around," the Professor grinds out.

MAGA shuffles away, muttering something about the country going to hell, while Arturo takes over his spot at the rail and taunts after him, "Yeah, I didn't _think_ so. Chickenshit." After a moment, he looks back at B.B. and the Professor. "What?"

"Um." B.B. wants to ask why it seems to matter, but he'd rather just let the whole thing drop. "Just wondered who you like in the second."

"Oh. Yeah, that." Arturo shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts like an Etch-a-Sketch. "I like Red Carpet Cat, Drizzy, Heavenly Thought, and My Special Image. Keyed with...Midnight Praise." Arturo looks a bit sheepish.

"Now wait a minute, I thought you said--" B.B. starts, but Arturo interrupts him.

"Yeah yeah, bet the horse, not the rider. Well, it's a live horse."

"Stepping up in class, though," the Professor warns.

"That's a good thing," Arturo says. "Hux must think the horse can handle the field. First Order don't send their horses out to lose."

"I have the ten horse for my key," the Professor says. "Heavenly Thought likes an outside post. He's run his best races when he's clear on the outside, even if he has to go wide." After a moment he adds, "But...I do have Moonlight Praise in my wheel."

"That's a better way to play the trifecta, kid," Arturo says. "If you got a horse you really like to finish first or second, pick four others you think got a shot, then do two wheels with the horse you like the most as your key. One set with the horse in first, one set with the horse coming in second. Twelve bucks each, for a total of twenty four spent, and you still got a decent shot of cashing a winning ticket."

"Oh." B.B. reconsiders his picks in this light. It makes a lot of sense--narrow your choice down to one you really feel good about, then take the others you like and build combinations around it. "Hey, is Mr. Kato gonna be here today?"

"You know it. He'll be goin' back and forth though, between here and the paddock." Arturo nods wisely. "Kato never places a bet 'til he sees how a horse looks."

"We will keep a space for him," the Professor promises.

B.B. circles the number 5 in the second race--Midnight Praise--then places check marks by King Eddie and three other horses. B.B.'s heard it said that a jockey is only ten percent of a horse's success in any given race...but in all the races he's watched, Wedge Antilles not only gives that full ten, sometimes he seems to push it up to eleven.


	6. Flashback:  Hopeful Stakes, 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memorable photo finish.

_Hopeful Stakes, 1982 - Saratoga._

_There's something electric._

_It's in the record crowd buzzing with anticipation. It's in the simmering late August heat, and the rippling muscles of seven horses as they're led onto the track. It's in the powerful thud of their hooves as they prance past the stands, their coats shining with sweat; it's in their proud arched necks and their brown-amber eyes flashing edges of white._

_It's in ABC's_ Wide World of Sports _television broadcast, breaking away from the Little League World Series to introduce a wide national audience to the horses and personalities that--the sport is hopeful--will dominate headlines next year. The segment gets an exciting lead-in, with a fast-cut montage to the current number one song in the country, "Eye of the Tiger."_

_It's in the name of the race itself: Hopeful. These colts are the best two-year-olds in the country, with the hope for unknown glories ahead of them, and whoever wins this race will be crowned the early favorite for next year's Kentucky Derby._

_It's in the unbeaten colt Tydirium, bold and headstrong as he tosses his mane and breaks into a fast trot, tail flagged and flowing behind him like a long golden feather. He's the invading champion from California, but the New York crowd "ooohs" in appreciation of his beauty and spirit. A caramel-colored chestnut, splashed with creamy white on his face and all four feet, blessed with a broad chest and incredible speed, he's already drawing early comparisons to Secretariat._

_It's in the star power of his champion jockey, young Luke Skywalker, who's even hotter than Little Stevie Cauthen was a few years ago. Last week's_ People _featured some candid shots of him shirtless, playing beach volleyball with friends near Del Mar. A high-pitched keening wave ripples through the crowd as Luke and Tydirium pass by._

_"I love you, Luke!" screams a teenaged girl pressed against the rail, one of her arms extended out to him as if there weren't meters of space and a protective fence between them; further along the rail, three girls in snug sorority t-shirts and tight shorts take up the cry, declaring their love as Tydirium trots past. Several rows back in the crowd, someone holds up a homemade poster board sign emblazoned with hand-drawn horses and glittery hearts: MARRY ME LUKE!_

_Luke turns his head and waves at all of them, smiling; his goggles are still perched up on his helmet, and his eyes are so pure blue you can see them clear from meters away. There's an open sweetness about the way he smiles at the girls, at all of the fans along the rail, young and old alike. His hands on the reins are gentle, and he seems unperturbed by Tydirium's fractiousness; the colt in turn seems to appreciate his rider's light touch giving him freedom to prance and play as long as he doesn't take it too far, and Tydirium responds by settling down to an easy canter as they turn about to head up the track for their warm-up._

_The electricity is also palpable in the presence of unbeaten Tantive, who follows Tydirium in the post parade. His sweat-damp coat has the color and sheen of a wet seal. What he lacks in flashiness, he makes up for in physical presence: he's a giant of an animal, standing over seventeen hands tall. He has a plain sort of head, and an awkward walk, as if he has to think about where he's putting his feet. What beauty there is in Tantive is the beauty horse people appreciate--his calm and intelligent eyes, long sloping shoulders, powerful hindquarters. He is the local hero, despite his Kentucky breeding. He made his start here in New York and hasn't lost yet._

_His jockey is another immigrant who's become a local hero. An Eclipse Award-winning rider, Wedge Antilles seems permanently in Luke Skywalker's shadow on the national stage, but New York fans love the story of this young Glaswegian, who started off as a steeplechase rider in Scotland, then switched to flat racing, lost his parents to violence--a petrol station robbery gone wrong--and in the midst of his grief, moved to America for a new start. Wedge eventually adopted New York as his home circuit, and New Yorkers have adopted Wedge as their own. He lacks the entertainer's style of a Luke Skywalker or Angel Cordero, but his skill in the saddle, quietly confident manner, and graciousness with the public--especially kids--make him a fan favorite._

_The darkly handsome young jockey has his own cheerleader brigade too, although they are quieter than the Skywalker contingent. They're recognizable by the little Scottish flags they hold up high as Tantive strides by. The colt turns his head curiously, his attention caught by the flags; Wedge has his goggles pulled down already and he seems lost in his own thoughts. Or perhaps, he's just focused on his horse--he reaches down to stroke Tantive's long wet neck. He looks up briefly once, away from the crowd--possibly towards the starting gate on the backstretch, or maybe at Skywalker and Tydirium as they canter in the opposite direction._

_The sense of building electricity can even be felt on television, as the trainers make their way to their box seats. Han Solo, Tantive's trainer, agrees to speak briefly on camera._

_"We've been drilling him, to get him better at leaving the gate. We gotta lay closer to the pace today," Solo says. "It always takes our horse a few furlongs to get going, and we been lucky so far. But we can't get too far back this time. That ain't gonna work against a horse like Tydirium. Not at six-and-a-half furlongs."_

_Tydirium's trainer, the revered veteran Ben Kenobi, keeps his comments to the press short and to the point._

_"My instructions to our rider were simply, trust the horse. Let him run his race."_

_Even sportscaster Jim McKay seems infected by the electric anticipation in the air, as he eagerly reminds the television audience of the contrasting styles of these two colts and their jockeys:_

_"Tydirium wins by going right to the front and telling the rest of the field 'catch me if you can.' If you try to keep up with him, you burn your horse out; if you hold back, he gets to set his own pace and then there's no catching him. He and Skywalker--a superb gate rider--are the perfect match._

_"Tantive is slow at the start--in his first race, he left the starting gate almost at a walk--but once he finds his stride and momentum he closes like a freight train. In his last race, he went seven wide around the far turn and still won. And Antilles has the patience and steady nerves to not hurry his colt before he's ready._

_"Tydirium has the inside post, a good spot for him to bounce out to the lead. Tantive has the number two post, which will almost certainly put him into traffic, unless Antilles drops him far back and then tries to go around._

_"The question is, can he do that against Tydirium? At six -and-a-half furlongs? We're about to find out."_

_It's post time. The electric tote board buzzes and flashes with the final odds: California invader or not, Tydirium is the favorite._

_***_

_The gates slam open, and seven horses catapult as one from their starting stalls. Their jockeys throw themselves forward as ballast, low over their mounts' shoulders, as the horses claw and scrabble at the track with their forehooves. Massive muscles in their hindquarters bunch and thrust, rocketing their powerful bodies forward, while the colts stretch out, extending their front legs further and further as each horse reaches to find his stride. For a moment they are an indeterminate cluster, a small herd of bobbing heads and flowing tails, too close for any one animal to stand out._

_Then a roar goes up from the crowd as a light-bodied grey colt in yellow blinkers emerges from the pack, the first to grab the lead. It's Royal Cruiser on the outside, pulling ahead and outrunning the speedy Tydirium, who has never been outpaced before. How will the California colt respond? Will he fold under the challenge? Or is his speed dependent on his fast home tracks out west?_

_Tydirium's response is immediate. Before Royal Cruiser can pull half a length ahead, the chestnut colt draws even in a single enormous stride. Their heads bob together for another stride, and then Tydirium is in front by a length, his white feet flashing under him like lightning. Skywalker, in the black-and-white silks of Empire Stables, rides low and chilly on his back._

_The crowd roars again--this time in astonishment--as the electric teletimer flashes._

_"Twenty one-and one for the opening quarter!" cries racecaller Marshall Cassidy. Skywalker hasn't moved--isn't urging his horse, isn't trying to slow him._

_Which can only mean Tydirium has more where that came from, and Skywalker's only waiting to pull the trigger._

_Tydirium continues to roll, Royal Cruiser in close pursuit. Coming up fast in third on the rail is the bay Dragonfire, his jockey trying to mount a challenge and run with the pace. Jamero, Blackberry Wine, and Laser Light--the third betting choice, with Soontir Fel in the irons--bunch up in a diagonal behind, their riders waiting to pounce as soon as the speed up in front crumbles. And it has to, as fast as they're going. Holy Cannoli lingers at the back on the outside, while Tantive, as expected, is last._

_But not by much._

_"Tantive is moving smartly, only five lengths from the front!" Cassidy announces. His next call draws a cheer from the crowd: "And now he's coming up on the inside!"_

_Tydirium blazes along in the lead, shining gold and white, and he opens up a tail's worth of daylight on Royal Cruiser while Skywalker continues to nurse his colt's speed. The formation behind them begins to fall apart, the diagonal of Jamero, Blackberry Wine, and Laser Light turning into a ragged line trailing the leaders, while Tantive slips through on the rail. He's a fast-closing fifth now, gaining ground and momentum._

_Antilles, in the eye-catching silks of Alliance Stables, urges his horse. The bright orange jacket stands out among the dark heaving bodies, and you can see his arms, in black-and-white sleeves, pumping along Tantive's neck. He slips into fourth place with Dragonfire just ahead on the rail._

_Skywalker rides low, smooth, and still, waiting for the challenge he knows is coming._

_The field approaches the far turn and Tydirium shows no sign of weakening._ "The half in forty-four and one-fifth seconds!" __

_Royal Cruiser remains dogged on Tydirium's outside, but as Jamero and Laser Light start to move up, Blackberry Wine is unable to challenge the torrid pace and he falls away from contention._

_As does Dragonfire. He's spent, backing up through the pack like used newspaper in a slipstream._

_"Tantive is caught behind him with no way out!" Cassidy cries. "Dragonfire's dropping back, Tantive falling back to last,_ Tantive is now last with three furlongs to go!" _The stands rumble as sixty thousand fans rise to their feet._

_Tydirium leads the charge into the far turn, pulling away slowly from the pack. Royal Cruiser bears out a bit but hangs tough, fighting to stay in contention--he's fighting for third place though, at best. Jamero swings wide, Laser Light is moving fast and has found his best stride, coming up on Tydirium's flowing tail._

_At the back of the pack, Tantive splits horses, Antilles threading him through a seam that opens up between the weakening Blackberry Wine and the spent Dragonfire. With a burst of speed he moves up from last to a fast-closing third. Antilles takes aim at the rail, but Soontir Fel on Laser Light has the same thought._

_Tantive is moving faster. Laser Light only needs to shift lanes._

_They thunder around the far turn, and the roar from the crowd is almost a physical force as Cassidy makes the call:_

_"It's still Tydirium--and here comes Laser Light! Laser Light with a rally, trying to come on through at the rail--but Tantive beats him to it!_ Tantive is squeezing through on the inside _\--oh, a daring move by Antilles!"_

_Wedge's boot scrapes the paint off the rail as he urges Tantive--seventeen hands and broad as Baby Huey--through the seam. The colt responds without hesitation or break in stride._

_Tydirium is rolling away from the pack now, glorious and glistening, striding out with the same powerful, unbroken rhythm that carried him this far. Tantive, his entire front end now dappled with sand that's been kicked up at him and stuck to his wet hide, plows along the rail with dead aim on the leader._

_The crowd howls. The grandstand vibrates with the sound, as if charged by an electric current._

_Skywalker and Antilles cock their sticks at nearly the same moment._

_Tydirium shows no weakening. Tantive takes one--two--three strides. He draws even._

_Skywalker asks Tydirium the question. His stick is cocked, but not put to use yet. Instead he asks with his hands, his feet, the shift and flow of his body skimming the back of his horse. He asks by angling Tydirium's beautiful head just enough so he can see the rolling brown eye of the other colt beside him._

__Are you gonna let this guy beat you? __

_And Tydirium responds:_

__Hell, no! __

_Challenged in the stretch for the first time in his young life, Tydirium responds with all the heart of his breed. He digs in. He pushes his golden head in front._

_Antilles is the first to go to the whip--showing it to his colt, swinging it along his side, then smacking his horse on the flank right-handed. Once._

_The response is electric. Tantive leaps forward, drawing even again. The two heads bobble, up-and-down, up-and-down, as they charge down the lane with one furlong to go._

_Skywalker swings his whip right-handed as Antilles hits Tantive again. Tydirium bears in towards Tantive, closing the gap between them to inches and taking away any room for Antilles to use his whip right-handed. The jockeys are boot-to-boot, thigh-to-thigh as they drive for the finish._

_Antilles switches his whip to the left hand and gives Tantive another smack, but any more than that and he risks Tantive bumping into Tydirium. At best that would earn disqualification--at worst it could injure Tydirium, knock Skywalker off his horse, or even cause a stumble and fall. He throws a cross, settles both hands on the reins, and starts riding with everything he's got--thrusting his body forward, curling and thrusting again, moving in time with his mount._

_Beside him, Skywalker's thigh rubs against his own as Skywalker does the same, urging his horse with body and hands._

_The ground rumbles as if from an earthquake--from thundering hooves, and from the solid wall of sound from the stands, sixty thousand voices screaming._

_Tydirium and Tantive, Skywalker and Antilles--they fall into a matching rhythm now, where before they were opposing, one gathered while the other extended, and back-and-forth. Now the horses move with equal strides, heads bobbing with each other, riders pumping and rocking in perfect synchronization. There's nothing between them as they hit the wire together--moving as if they were one._

_Nobody knows who won. Not the jockeys, not the trainers, not the fans who've screamed themselves hoarse. They'll have to wait for the photo._

_Cassidy makes the call. "It's a photo finish that doesn't deserve a loser!"_

_***_

_Up among the owner's boxes, Han Solo slumps down into a chair, spent. He exhales long and slow, cheeks puffed and lips pursed. It takes him a few more deep and careful breaths before he can speak to his companion._

_"I've seen wild finishes, and I've seen_ wild _finishes," he intones. "But I ain't never seen a finish that made me feel like I oughta have a cigarette afterwards."_

_The diminutive young woman beside him is already smoothly touching flame to cigarette until the end glows. She closes her silver lighter with a click._

_"One step ahead of you," Leia Organa replies. She takes a long pull, cigarette poised in the V of her index and middle fingers._

_Han huffs not-quite-a-laugh, grinning crookedly. Affectionate. "Yeah, y'always are."_

_Leia exhales and passes Han the cigarette, marked by the red kiss of her lipstick. "Think we got it?"_

_"Hell if I know. All I know is...if these colts stay sound, next year is gonna be_ real _interesting times."_

_"Careful. There's a curse about interesting times." Leia turns her attention back to the track, where the horses are still being ridden out, allowed to shorten their strides bit by bit until they can slow to a walk. Tydirium and Tantive are still side by side, slowing to a canter, then a trot, their paces in perfect time with each other._

_She watches her brother reach out to Wedge. Wedge clasps his hand, raising their arms high as their horses slow to a walk. It's brief--it could be the clasp of two competitors raising their joined hands together in exhilaration and mutual respect._

_Which it is. Except there's more to it. Much more. And if you know what to look for, you can see it even from here._

_Leia thinks Luke and Wedge might not join them at The Longshot for beer and pool later, after all. She suspects they're going to skip right to the "locked hotel room and do not disturb sign" part of the night. She doesn't say it out loud though. She loves Han and keeps no secrets of her own from him--but she does keep her brother's secrets._

_She hopes next year won't bring interesting times in the cursed sense of the phrase._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who won? :)
> 
> Watch and see.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Igs74jLihPw
> 
> The part of Tydirium is played by Carson Hollow, carrying the black-and-white silks; Tantive is played by You, carrying the red-and-blue silks. And yes, I shamelessly used Tom Durkin's comment at the end. It was too appropriate; it truly was one of those photo finishes where you don't want to see either horse lose.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey takes on a new responsibility and encounters a rogue, while Finn sees Ben Solo's anger in action.

Chewie gives Rey the news just before the set heads out for exercise.

"Han's gone to meet your Aunt Leia at the airport, so we need you to pony today. You're on Badger."

_I get to go out on the track. This is for real. I finally get to go out on the track._ Rey takes a deep breath and nods, trying to keep her hands still. It feels like her heart is tripping along somewhere up in her throat and she wonders if Chewie can spot the pulse. 

"I'll get my gear, I stowed it in the tack room." she says, trying to sound ready and confident.

Chewie nods. "Gloves. Don't forget gloves." He strolls alongside as she hurries to the tack room, giving instructions as they go.

"Nothin' fancy. And trust Badger, he's done this longer than you have. First set we got Lucy. She's racing today, so all you're gonna do is trot her once around the track and lead her back home. Just stretch her legs."

_Lucy. That's Lady Luck. Mr. Calrissian's mare._ Rey fumbles with the latch on the tack room door and then hauls the sliding door back with more force than absolutely necessary. The adrenaline rushing through her just amped up a few more notches. Lady Luck is one of the best horses in the Solo barn, and Calrissian an absolute high roller, make no mistake. The only comforting thought is that Lucy is an old veteran at five years old and probably smart enough to trot herself around the track if that sort of thing were permissible.

"When you come back hand her off to Stella, then pick up Wowie. Now he's kind of a goofball but Badger'll keep him in line." 

Rey flips on the tack room light. "Lucy, then Wowie. Got it." _Wowie--that's Hornblower. Three years old and handsome as a male model. And just as dimwitted. No wonder Chewie's pairing him with Badger--the older horse will teach him how to behave._ She makes a grab for the flak vest dangling from a hanger, and yanks the plastic hanger off the peg entirely. It slips out of the vest and clatters to the ground. Rey curses quietly as she picks it up and sticks it on the peg again.

Chewie waits patiently, his eyes sympathetic under bushy eyebrows. If he's smiling, it's hidden behind his prodigious beard, but his eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that seems to suggest it. He waits for her to get her flak vest on and pick up her helmet before he finishes giving the instructions. "You're gonna backtrack the wrong way around 'til you get to the grandstand, then turn about and lope him back the other way, nice and easy. His exercise rider'll tell you when to break off, and that's when you let him go and he'll take it from there. He'll work him for five, ride him out another furlong, and then you collect 'em and lead 'em back. Piece of cake."

"Yeah. Cake." Rey says. That doesn't come out half as confident as she'd hoped.

Now Chewie does smile openly, his teeth flashing white through his beard as he chuckles. "You got this, sport."

Rey has been around horses all her life; her first baby picture is of Luke holding her up to three of Chirrut and Baze's off-track Thoroughbreds standing at a paddock fence. The horses are all intensely curious and soft-eyed, ears pricked and noses extended, gently whuffling her chubby little baby fingers as she reaches out to them. Luke put her on a pony almost as soon as she could sit up and balance under her own power. Between her own experience, and the combined tutelage of her father, Baze, and Chirrut--superior horsemen all--Rey knows what she's doing on the back of a horse. And yet right now the last thing she feels is like she's got this.

So far everything at the track has been an education. Luckily Uncle Han and Chewie have been there to guide her through some of the more official stuff--getting fingerprinted and licensed and going before the stewards to be tested on knowledge and horsemanship (which was probably the most intimidating moment of her life so far). Other things have simply been a matter of learning experience.

Hotwalking, for instance. It's simple in principle. When a horse comes back from exercise, it has to be walked for at least thirty minutes to cool off. Lead it up the shedrow, turn left, walk it down the other side, turn left. Give it a few swallows of water, then do it all over again. Just keep turning left.

Easy, right?

Except there are very rigid traffic rules on the backside. For example, horses can only pass people in the shedrow if the person is on the left side of the aisle, so if a horse starts getting acting up and looks like it might kick, the groom or hotwalker can angle its head to the left and its hindquarters outwards, away from people. On her first day on the job she got a few sharp words from more than one groom or exercise rider for walking on the wrong side of the row, or not moving out of the way fast enough.

Safety equipment is another thing. Nobody's allowed onto the track without a helmet and flak vest. That was never really an issue at home, unless you were schooling a brand-new horse, or jumping, and even there it was just helmets. 

Then there's ponying.

Rey knew from a stray comment by her father that lead ponies aren't actually ponies, but she didn't know that many of them are retired racers themselves. Badger--registered and raced as Honey Badger--is a behemoth of a bay gelding, big enough to carry Chewie, which he usually does. He had enough speed to win a few allowance races and place in a few stakes, but no competitive fire despite his name, and he's found his niche as a lead pony. 

Badger's waiting, already tacked up with a Western saddle and a dark green saddlecloth, shadow roll, polo bandages and boots. He's approximately the size of a small mountain.

"Need a boost?" Chewie offers.

"I got it, thanks," Rey says. She gathers the reins and saddlehorn in her left hand, lifts her left leg awkwardly high, and fits the toe of her boot into the left stirrup. She grabs the cantle with her right hand and vaults, thrusting with her legs as hard as she can while pulling herself up. For one awful, grunting moment of effort, she's afraid she won't make it--but then she's up and swinging her right leg over, settling in the saddle. Badger sidesteps a little, then settles as she reins him in.

Chewie nods approvingly and slaps Badger on the shoulder. "Away you go then. Stella's gonna hand Lucy off to you at the gap."

Rey squeezes Badger's sides with her legs and he walks on, heading towards the track even before she gets a proper hold of the reins to guide him. She wraps her lead rope once around the saddle horn as she goes over the traffic rules she's absorbed over the past few weeks:

_Always stay to the middle of the track or further out._

_Avoid the inside rail like it's got Ebola._

_Never go faster than a trot when backtracking or coming off the track._

_If an outrider tells you to do something, do it immediately._

_Oncoming horses are faster than they appear._

_You and your pony are the racehorse's bodyguard._

The Gap no longer means "shopping" or "Rohan" to Rey. From now on she'll always associate it with the break in the fence where horses enter the track from the backside, and she learned on day one that you need to be on your toes there all the time. If a young and flighty horse gets loose and tries to run back home, it's coming through the gap, and you don't want to be in the way. 

Luckily, Rey doesn't have to wait long. She and Badger are only there for a minute, standing clear of the gap, before Lucy--Lady Luck--appears. In the early morning light, Calrissian's prize mare shines bright copper red, like a new penny. Come race time she'll wear royal blue blinkers to match her owner's royal blue-and-periwinkle racing colors, but for now she's tacked up in nondescript exercise gear with a martingale to keep her from throwing her head too high. Her groom Stella is walking her, but Rey doesn't recognize the girl on Lucy's back. A new exercise rider maybe...except she looks strangely familiar. Her dark hair is in a ponytail flopped over one shoulder, and her eyes are velvety brown and alert. Rey likes the way her hands sit on Lucy's reins--confident but light.

"Hi," the exercise rider says brightly, even before Stella's brought them close. "You're our pony today?"

"I'm Rey." It's not brilliant conversation, but at the moment Rey feels like she has other things to worry about besides being brilliant. Shame, because the other girl is really, really cute.

The cuteness factor shoots up to eleven when she smiles. "Jess. Nice to meet you. Once around the park then?" 

***

If Saratoga's opening day is like an upscale county fair, Del Mar's opening is all about glamour and the racetrack-as-adult-playground, drawing in spectators who are not especially racing fans or horseplayers, but who are there for the party atmosphere. The main attraction for the crowd is the Annual Opening Day Hat Contest. Many of the 40,000 visitors who pass through the gates will be wearing hats--some exquisite, some outrageous--in the hopes of winning the grand prize, which includes a luxury hotel stay and dinner for two at a five-star restaurant. If fashion isn't your thing and you're looking for action, $35 will get you into The Party, where you'll find a high-energy crowd, games tent, and dance floor with DJ.

Finn understands why the track offers such entertainment, but it troubles him all the same. Do civilians really need that much distraction in between races? What's the point in getting Ludacris to do a concert after the day's races are done, if not enough people care about the races themselves? And why would anyone want all the extra entertainment anyway, when they can just be around beautiful horses?

That's when Finn has to remember that to most people a horse is just a horse, and he's the weird one who gets all emotional over them.

And right now he's got a problem. He and Ebon Hawk, specifically.

"Mr. Solo, I'm not sure if Hawk's ready to work in company again," he says carefully. Careful is a requirement here; he's treading on delicate ground. Ben Solo studies Ebon Hawk, arms folded as he stands motionless and rigid in front of the stall. The colt stares right back at him with a "fuck you" glare.

The truth is that Finn wonders if Hawk will ever be safe to put on a racetrack--will ever be safe anywhere, really, other than under the most professional and guarded care. Today he had to remove the heartbreaking remains of a kitten from Hawk's stall. The adult barn cats are too canny to go anywhere near Hawk, but one of the kittens from a recent litter must have wandered away and unknowingly, fatally, found its way into the colt's territory.

(Finn couldn't bring himself to throw the body away like garbage. He carefully wrapped it in a cloth, his eyes stinging, and he plans to bury it properly later tonight.)

Ben Solo makes no reply at first, gives no indication that he even heard Finn. He might be a statue but for the way the early morning breeze plays through his hair. Finally his nostrils flare as he inhales a sharp breath.

"He's a racehorse," he replies. "He has to learn his job sooner or later, and it's got to be sooner if we intend to have him ready for the Futurity. Mr. Snoke expects results." He angles his face towards Finn, as if speaking to him, but he never breaks eye contact with Ebon Hawk. "You wouldn't want to have to explain to Mr. Snoke, would you?"

Finn shudders as he thinks of the one time he met Snoke in person. He has no rational explanation for the feeling Snoke gave him...like feeling a tickle on your hand and looking down to find a roach crawling over it. It didn't make sense. He was just a wizened little man, possibly one in bad health. The whites of his eyes had been faintly yellow, as if he suffered from jaundice. He was small, old, frail.

Yet he wouldn't want to tell Mr. Snoke any bad news at all.

"No, Mr. Solo."

"Nor do I. You'll tack him and have him ready for the set as planned. He'll work with the new Mensajero colt that just shipped in. A nice, easy gallop for them both." Ben takes a step forward, hand reaching up as if to stroke Ebon Hawk's face.

The colt strikes like a cobra. Ears pinned back flat, his elegant, beautiful head turning viciously ugly, with gaping mouth and bared teeth. Finn cries out a warning even though he knows he's too late--

But it's Ben Solo who lands the blow, his open hand suddenly a fist that punches Ebon Hawk's soft muzzle. The horse jerks back, head popping high. Though the colt has backed off and is no longer trying to bite, Solo punches him again, even harder, his face twisting in fury. Hawk scrabbles backwards in his stall, his long legs nearly entangling and tripping him until he gets them spread and braced; he teeters on them, trembling like a foal standing for the first time. The colt holds his head high, fearful, and he glares at Solo with hatred.

"Try and bite me again, you bastard," Ben Solo snarls, his lip curling back. "Come on!"

Finn rocks back on his heels; for a moment, he can't feel anything but shock, too much shock for anger to set in immediately. He's seen some shit, but never such naked, vengeful hate taken out on a horse like this. Not at a track. It's not the punch that shocks him so much as the rage and resentment behind it, as if Ben Solo hates this animal for not being what he wants it to be.

That's when Finn's own anger rises, and he steps forward, hands clenched. But before he can say or do anything else, Ben Solo swivels his head to glare at him from under lowered brows.

"Think, before you do something stupid," the trainer hisses. "Who are the white boys in the front office going to believe?"

Finn freezes in place--and not just because the blatantly racial taunt leaves him as stunned as if Solo had turned about and hit him too. 

If he strikes the trainer, he's done. Not just out, but blackballed. The racing community is worldwide, but the way gossip moves through it, it might as well be Mayberry. He can forget about working at any track, anywhere else--except maybe some weekend bush track where training means "hop 'em, pop 'em, and shock 'em" and a rooster tied to the saddle is a perfectly acceptable jockey.

As for reporting it? Yeah, right. Ben Solo--son of Kentucky scion Leia Organa and winning trainer Han Solo, almost made the U.S. Equestrian Team for the Olympics, now assistant trainer in a major operation--versus a groom who crawled out of foster care in fucking Louisiana.

Who will the white boys believe, indeed.

He glances at Hawk. The colt is still pressed up against the back wall, his ears pinned, his eyes bulging and showing white crescents. Hawk snorts explosively, slamming down one hoof into the deep straw of his stall like a man pounding the table with his fist. The horse is pissed and scared, but there's no sign of physical damage from the hit. 

And when Finn looks around, there's nobody else on the shedrow. No proof, and no witnesses.

Ben Solo nods slowly, and when he speaks again his voice is slower too, as if he's trying to calm himself down. "I bet he won't try to take a piece out of anyone else today. You'll see. It's better to break them quickly than make it a drawn-out fight. Now saddle him and get him ready to gallop with the Mensajero colt."

He flexes his punching hand several times, then cups it in his other hand and turns away, striding away on long legs that take him to the end of the shedrow quickly, then he turns a corner and he's gone.

Finn hopes he hurt the fuck out of his hand.

***

The morning exercise traffic is heavy at this hour, but Rey's forgotten about her misgivings and she feels light and giddy, for many reasons.

One, it's a thrill to finally ride _on the track,_ after weeks of endless left turns around the shedrow. 

Two, Badger is a calm old hand and knows what to do almost before he's asked to do it, and Lady Luck is turning out to be a dream to escort. Like Badger, she knows her job and she does it with pleasure, clearly enjoying herself as she stretches her legs. Aside from a few random jounces as she kicked up her heels when they started out, she's been trotting nicely at Badger's side.

Three, it's Opening Day, and that makes things extra-exciting. There's more trainers and observers along the rail, and some of them Rey's only seen before on tv. Aunt Leia will be here later too, and Rey can't wait to see her again.

Four--speaking of people she's seen on tv. Rey knows where she's seen Jess now. Jess is Jessika Pava. Jessika _fucking_ Pava, who won two Breeder's Cup races last year. Rey's had a massive girlcrush on her for a couple years now and here she is, actually getting to escort her.

And Jess is totally cool. That's the best part.

"I didn't think top riders had to do morning works," Rey says.

"Welllll, some like to sleep in," Jess says--a little breathless as she posts in the saddle. Lady Luck tries to stride out faster, tries to turn her trot into a canter, but Rey draws her head in towards Badger and Jess rises in her irons, the same stance she'd use to pull her horse up slowly after the finish line. Lady Luck takes the signal and settles down. "But if I pick up a mount I always like to exercise it first if I can. She's a good girl, isn't she?" Jess sits down again and strokes the mare's arched neck. 

Jess is beaming at Rey, and it takes Rey a moment to get past her smile and wide dark eyes and realize the question isn't rhetorical.

"She's fantastic," Rey says. "Really smart--as you see. The race today is supposed to be a tightener for the Clement Hirsch next month. Uncle Han's been working on her."

"Grade One, three hundred thousand-dollar purse," Jess says, sounding pleased. "She already seems pretty sharp though."

"Oh, she'll get sharper. She can get mareish sometimes, but she channels all that grumpiness and aggression into competitiveness. She's one of Millennium Falcon's granddaughters so she inherited that don't-fuck-with-me streak. But around the barn she's mostly just a big sweetheart. We call her Lucy. She likes donuts. I've seen her steal a cruller right out of Uncle Han's hands."

A narrow-faced outrider hails Jess by name and waves to her, and she waves back. "Morning, Hobbie!" Once they've trotted by, Jess says, "That's Derek Klivian, but everyone calls him Hobbie--don't ask me why though. He used to be a jockey on the eastern circuit. Have you met him yet? He's got some great stories."

"No, wait, really?" Rey twists in her saddle to look back at the lean man sitting atop a squarish, close-coupled chestnut gelding. "That's Hobbie Klivian? My d...." she stops herself. "I've heard about him." 

She looks back to Jess to find the girl watching her with quick sideways glances, keeping one eye on the track ahead. "From who? You mentioned...Uncle Han. Is Han Solo your real uncle?"

Rey opens and shuts her mouth a few times. "It's complicated," she offers at last--the default explanation for anything involving Skywalkers, Organas, and Solos. "We'd have to go around this track at least five times for me to tell the whole story."

Jess tilts a smile at her as they approach the far turn. "Some of us are going out tonight, after the races are done. Want to come? Should be plenty of time to tell your story then."

Rey's eyes widen.

At school she was weird, horse-crazy Rey who lived with three dads. She stopped getting birthday party invitations around third grade and spent a lot of time telling herself not to care. Children's slumber parties turned to weekend house parties over the years, and she kept telling herself she didn't care. And to an extent, she didn't. Parties weren't the issue--it was just that she never had a group of friends, or even a loose tribe of peers who wanted her around.

Getting invited to join something, by someone you just met--being liked enough for that--happens in books or movies. It doesn't happen in real life. Not to her.

She's so bowled over by Jess's offer, it takes her a moment to realize that the lights flashing in her eyes are real, and not the result of going dizzy because her girlcrush/idol asked her to hang out. 

And the siren rising in a wail over the track is real too.

"Shit," Jess whispers, and starts looking around, just as Rey voices the exact same sentiment--albeit a little louder, with a little more worry. Badger's ears twitch as he picks up on her nerves.

The lights and the siren only come on for one reason: when a horse gets loose on the track. 

_A horse running free is a danger to itself and everyone around it,_ Uncle Han told her on day one. _It's big, fast, unpredictable, and scared. Stay out of its way and let the outriders do their job._

It seems to happen at least once a week, the siren going off, but this is the first time Rey's been on the track for it. And a hell of a time for it, with so many sets out for exercise. 

"Do you see it?" Jess asks, as another horse and pony canter past them and angle towards the outer rail, slowing up and looking like they want to be anywhere else right now. "I don't see it...."

It bursts around the turn, coming into view from the blind curve and running the wrong way up the track: a blood bay horse, head low, eyes rolling, reins and stirrups flapping loose, fleeing as if all the demons of hell are after it. Patches of white foamy sweat lather its neck, shoulders, and flanks. There's an outrider chasing it, but he's too far behind and the loose horse is pulling away. It angles out to the outer rail, and for a moment Rey freezes as panic and indecision sieze her. 

_Oncoming horses are faster than they appear,_ she hears Uncle Han say drily.

Then she yells, and slams her heels to Badger's sides while turning his head, launching him into a sharp angle towards the outside. Lucy throws her head up, but Jess yells at her too, urging her to follow. The two horses leap into a fast, uneven canter that gets them out of the way of the panicked horse's trajectory.

They're well clear by the time the rogue flashes past, but Rey fancies she can feel the wind of his speed, even as the dust settles slowly behind him.

"Shit, did you see that? His neck was bleeding!" Jess exclaims. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know...I didn't see...." Rey slows Badger again, drawing Lucy down to a walk with him, and finally full stop as she turns the horses to face the infield.

Down the track, Hobbie Klivian and his horse take off the mark like a rocket, sprinting alongside the runaway horse. The little chestnut's hindquarters churn with powerful, fast strides, kicking up a cloud of dirt behind it as they draw even with the runaway. Hobbie leans out, stretching his arm as he angles his horse closer and he reaches for the slack reins.

For a moment Rey's heart nearly siezes up again--Hobbie could be yanked from the saddle and pulled down between the horses, under their crushing hooves, or the rogue could collide with his horse and knock him off.

Then Hobbie's got the reins, and almost immediately his horse angles in, pulling ahead of the runaway and forcing it to shorten its strides. Together, he and his mount lead the runaway horse in a gentle, slowing arc across the track, finally coming back around in a circle to lead it at a walk to the outer rail and come to a standstill. The other outrider, who'd been pursuing, comes up to join them and stands his horse on the other side of the now-subdued blood bay rogue.

Jess shakes her head. "I don't know if I'd have had the guts to make a catch like that," she says admiringly.

"I know I wouldn't have," Rey says, a little louder and more forceful than needed. She realizes the adrenaline's still pumping hard. "God. I froze, I'm sorry."

"What? You did good, what're you talking about?" Jess looks back at her in astonishment. "If you hadn't moved Badger when you did, Lucy and I would've plowed into you and we'd all have been tangled up when that horse hit us. You did what you were supposed to do."

Rey looks over at the outriders and the blood bay. "You said he was bleeding?"

"Yeah, I only saw the blood on his neck though, I couldn't tell what happened."

"I really can't see him now...."

"Oh. Look." Jess nods at an approaching pony rider in a familiar black-and-silver uniform. After a brief conference with the outriders, the pony escort collects the blood bay. "Must be a First Order horse."

Rey bites her lip, feeling uncomfortable and uncertain as her adrenaline rush begins to fade. "I guess...we finish our circuit now? Before Chewie freaks out?" Rey doesn't add that Chewie is probably already freaking out, and will spend the next 45 minutes examining Lucy to make sure her legs didn't get cut or bumped.

Jess nods. "Yeah. That's important--to end the work as usual, show Lucy that things are back to normal."

Rey turns Badger's head, and Lucy walks on with them. After a few moments, Badger steps out into a trot, and Lucy follows suit. With a few side-hops and head-tosses thrown in.

By the time they get back to the gap, Lucy is back to her businesslike self as if the whole incident is forgotten. But Rey, though she tries to be focused, has a dozen thoughts spinning through the back of her head.

She still hasn't met her cousin, Ben Solo. There's bad blood, something that happened there between Uncle Han and Aunt Leia and Ben. Chewie never speaks of it, and Uncle Han's only alluded to it, suggesting that Ben really doesn't talk with them any more. She wonders if Aunt Leia will be more forthcoming, now that Rey is at the track and sure to run into Ben.

One of his horses almost ran into her, for sure. Rey wonders what other forces might collide before this meet is over.

She might visit the First Order barns later. If anyone asks, she can say it's just to check on the blood bay horse.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedge makes a judgement call and pays the price for it.

The track chaplain Pastor Keith comes to the jock's room before the first race, and for a few minutes all activity grinds to a halt. Jockeys and valets bow their heads as he leads them in the 23rd Psalm, then the chaplain adds his own blessing and prayers for the safety of the riders, horses, outriders, and gate crew.

Wedge bows his head with the rest of them, respectful though he's not a believer himself. He's still bemused by the American tendency to invoke the Almighty in every endeavor, especially here. There's fucking gambling going on, after all. 

Prayer has never comforted him. It was no comfort when he had to bury his parents, no comfort for any of the other crises in his life, and no comfort now. But the backside is full of Christians--from the devout to the backsliders to the Sunday-onlys--and Wedge has no interest in getting into a debate with any of them. It's taken almost two decades for his colleagues to settle into acceptance of what happened between him and Luke, and that peace largely depends on not reminding them too much. 

Religious debate is almost certain to remind them.

"And let us remember to compete always with a spirit of honesty, sportsmanship, and love," the chaplain prays, his eyes closed, arms raised and spread out in supplication. "Love for our sport, love for the beautiful and noble animals at its heart, love for each other as brothers. For as first John, chapter four verse seven tells us, 'Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God.'"

Wedge keeps his head bowed and presses his lips together in a tight line. The pastor's a good man; the track chaplaincy does tremendous work supporting the backside community. And yet Wedge has a perverse, poke-the-sleeping-bear urge to ask him someday, "Was it from God, then? The love Luke gave me? The love I had for him?"

Luke was a believer, in those days. Not in a churchgoing, by-the-Bible way, but in his own Luke-way. Which was how Luke did everything, following his instincts and feelings and whatever made sense to him.

They'd talked about it, once. 

_Wedge had always imagined deserts as being one unbroken field of endless tan-colored sand. Instead there are myriad colors, complex and beautiful: striated red rock mesas, vivid magenta cactus pears, tiny yellow flowers peeking out from between grey stones, rough grasses and scrubby bushes in bleached variations of green, blue-green, and even violet. And of course there's the sky, a vast and cloudless field of purest morning blue--the color of Luke's eyes--stretching to the horizon in every direction._

_Luke rides beside him, deeply suntanned and his hair sunbleached to light gold--a palomino boy on a palomino horse. He's smiling, waiting for Wedge's answer. His smile is very distracting._

_"Never thought much about it," Wedge says finally, after trying to figure out how to articulate his reality to Luke, who just by his being, manages to challenge all kinds of things Wedge used to assume were true. "I'm not...comfortable...with belief. There's things I ken, and things I cannae, and that's all right. But belief just seems like...hoping for the best when there's no reason for it."_

_Luke nods. "See, for me, it's not a matter of belief. I look at this amazing world and I just know there has to be something even bigger."_

_"A divine watchmaker?" Wedge studies the intricate lines etched by wind and time into a distant mesa. The buckskin gelding he's riding looks in the same direction, ears pricked. After a moment, the buckskin decides that whatever caught his attention is not worth going on red alert about, and drops his head in an easy, relaxed bob as he walks alongside Luke's palomino. "The existence of creation implies a creator?"_

_Luke laughs softly. "Yeah, I guess."_

_"Hhn." Wedge shrugs. "I suppose...I trust in things I can see. Measure. At least I know they're real."_

_"What about love? You can't see or touch or measure it, but love is real. You believe in love, don't you?" Luke turns a wide-eyed look at Wedge, a look that's both flirtation and purest sincerity, and it grabs Wedge by the heart. "If love is a real thing...and God is love...."_

_He leaves it there, but that's all it takes for Wedge to decide that while he might not believe in God, he definitely wants to believe in Luke Skywalker._

That was the last time they discussed it. It was all they needed.

"Hey Gramps. Pastor's left the building, you can go back to your _Racing Form_." Dylan's cheerful voice interrupts his thoughts, and the young apprentice rattles the _Form_ laid out across Wedge's lap. Wedge raises his head, blinking, and realizes he's been stuck in a prayerful pose.

"Don'tcha know it's not good to sleep during church?" Dylan persists, as teasing and playful as a young colt at pasture. "Forget to take your Geritol today?"

Wedge picks up his _Form_ and holds it up in front of his face like a shield. "Maybe I did forget to take something today...what was it? Oh, right. My Give-A-Fuck pills."

Dylan laughs, plucking a whip from the selection laid out on the table. "No, really though. I been meanin' to ask, are those your grandkids?" His tone is less playful, more curious and respectful now. He points the whip at one of the two pictures Wedge has tacked up in his corner, a photograph of two excruciatingly cute, grinning little girls on huggably fat, wind-ruffled ponies. The taller girl looks to be about seven, with dark hair; she's missing two front teeth. The smaller girl is blonde and perhaps five. They're riding on a moor with mountains in the distance behind them.

Wedge is silent for a moment before he answers, measuring his words and exactly how much he wants to say. "No, those are my girls. Syal and Myri. They're at university now."

"Wow. Huh. They ride?"

"For fun. Pony Club when they were younger. Show jumping. But now it's just for fun. Syal's doing her last year at veterinary school..." Wedge stops himself, realizing he's about to ramble. He's apt to do that whenever he starts talking about the girls. Instead he turns the subject around. "Seems like yesterday you and your sister were coming to watch your Dad race, and now the both of you are racing too."

Dylan grins and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, and he still can't stand to watch us. He worries too much." The boy pulls his helmet down off the hook by his corner. "Do dads get over it?" he asks curiously.

Wedge smiles thinly. "No. Never."

Dylan heads out for the first race. Wedge closes his eyes for a moment. And even though he doesn't believe, he prays. _Seriously, just in case someone's listening out there...bring him back safe. Bring them all back safe._

He looks back up at the two pictures. The one of Syal and Myri was taken a little less than a year before Iella asked for a divorce. And the one of his parents, smiling and hugging each other....

Well. All the really important photographs in his life all seem to be taken just a few months before something terrible happens.

***

Arturo and the Professor are in good spirits after the photo on the first race goes their way, B.B. not so much. But he walks with them as they go to cash in their tickets, and they regale him with a verbal replay of the 1982 Hopeful, and the start of the Tydirium/Tantive rivalry.

"...it was the most stop-your-fuckin'-heart finish I ever seen at this track," Arturo says. 

"The stands rattled so hard, I feared for their structural integrity," the Professor adds.

"Yeah, upstate New York pinged the Richter scale that day."

B.B. shakes his head. "But...who won?"

"Who won?" Arturo grins, clearly having fun stringing it out. "Kid, just take a moment to appreciate one of the realities of this game: sometimes, it don't matter who won."

"I don't get it."

The Professor waves his arms in a grand, all-encompassing gesture. "Once in a very great while, one is honored to witness something that transcends mere victory. It could be a superior performance by a magnificent animal in a display of speed and courage, it could be an exceptionally canny ride--or a combination of the two, an exhibition of the sort of perfect union between horse and man that equestrians have pursued since Xenophon--"

"What my friend is tryin' to say is that sometimes you see some shit that's so friggin' awesome, for just that moment you forget you had money on it. That day we saw not one but two great horses, and not one but two great riders, in a great goddamn photo finish."

B.B. 's head swivels back and forth as if on a gimbel as he stares at the Professor and Arturo. Finally he jabs an accusatory finger at them. "You guys didn't bet either of 'em, did you."

"I had Laser Light to win," the Professor admits.

"I picked Holy Cannoli. Came in dead last," Arturo says. "Hey, I was a hunch player in those days and _The Godfather_ is the greatest movie ever. 'Leave the gun, take the cannoli.' I love that bit."

"You assholes." B.B. pulls out his iPhone and starts tapping buttons. "YouTube...Hopeful...nineteen...eighty-two."

"Ah, these kids and their instant gratification," Arturo says, waving his hand dismissively. "Spoiler alert, snowflake--it was Tantive and Antilles on top by a whisker."

"Damn it, Arturo!" B.B. had just hit play.

"You might as well watch the video," the Professor says primly. "Knowing the end shouldn't diminish your appreciation for either performance."

B.B. rolls his eyes, but he watches the video play out anyway. Roughly a minute and fifteen seconds later, he looks up at the older horseplayers like someone who's had a religious revelation.

"Wow."

The Professor nods wisely, while Arturo grins. "Toldja, kid."

"That race marked the beginning of a good few months for the sport," the Professor says, in that tone of voice that suggests he's falling into lecture mode. "The seventies were full of highs and lows--we had Secretariat, but then Ruffian's breakdown was so tragic, it drove many fans away, especially the new ones who'd gotten interested in racing because of Secretariat. Then came the feel good stories again--Seattle Slew, Affirmed and Alydar and Steve Cauthen, and Spectacular Bid. We had John Henry in the early eighties, and his was a wonderful story, but he was a blue-collar sort of horse. He didn't have...star power." He nods at the iPhone in B.B.'s hands. "Those two colts...and their jockeys...they had star power."

He looks like he could expound some more, but then the queue moves and it's his turn to cash in. While the Professor and Arturo are occupied, B.B. looks down at the screen and hits replay. He's silent, watching Tydirium and Tantive driving for the line...Skywalker and Antilles moving together as one, each an echo of the other. The exultant way they clasp hands afterwards.

"They really _did_ have something between them, didn't they. Skywalker and Antilles. That old guy wasn't just spouting shit."

The Professor and Arturo, rather than heading back to their perch on the rail, start walking towards the paddock. "It never stopped them from competing as hard as they could against each other on the track, and that's what matters," the Professor says, after a moment.

Arturo raises one finger. "No. Here's what matters." He sounds unusually serious. He shakes his finger for a moment, taking the pause to emphasize his next words. When he speaks again, it's with a measured slowness as he plumbs the memory.

"I rode against 'em once, back in the day. Kid, I could tell you stories about Hialeah Park in Florida. It was class all the way, once upon a time. Winston fuckin' Churchill called it extraordinary, and it was. Most beautiful track in the world. It attracted the greatest horses, trainers, jockeys. I was just a nobody there, but I was a nobody who was part of something big, you know?

"Skywalker and Antilles shipped in for that year's Turf Cup with a bunch of other big names--of course they had favored mounts. I was lucky though. My agent got me in on a longshot but it was the biggest race of my career. The biggest opportunity. 

"We were heading into the far turn and moving real good when my cinch got loose and the saddle slipped. I was making a move for the front at the time, so my horse really took off and started running uncontrolled, bulled his way right between Skywalker and Antilles and here's me hangin' on for dear life but startin' to slide."

They come to a stop at the whitewashed paddock fence, where the horses are already saddled for the second race, each horse being walked in a circle around a shady tree while the owners and trainers gather--some greeting each other and talking like old friends, others--like First Order's Armitage Hux--focused entirely on their horses. 

Arturo leans against the fence as he continues his story.

"Antilles looks over and he sees me falling. Reaches over in full gallop, catches me one-handed just as I'm going over the side. And he throws me back onto the horse's back. Only problem is, he's strong. Always was. Pincay is the only jock I can think of who was stronger. He throws me a little too hard and I start going over the _other_ side! Then Skywalker catches me. And he hangs on. He'd seen the saddle slip and he knew the horse might buck or even trip on the stirrups if the saddle went under his belly, so he held on to me in case he'd have to pull me off the horse quick. Then he yells to Antilles, 'Go get it, Wedge!' Skywalker gave up his shot at winning so he could make sure a fellow rider didn't go down. Me, a nobody.

"The kicker is that Antilles found me in the jock's room afterwards and apologized. Apologized. For not realizing the saddle had slipped, and just putting me back on the horse instead of holding on himself. Again--I'm a nobody. And here's the number two rider in the country apologizing to me. Skywalker and Antilles were classy guys. Like Hialeah Park, they were class all the way."

The Professor nods soberly. "Top class sportsmen. I don't believe the what they said about Skywalker later. I don't believe he hopped up his horses, not for a second."

Arturo bobs his head up and down. He looks at B.B. and waggles his finger again. "So don't forget it, kid. Don't matter if you like pussy or dick or both. All that matters is, are you the kinda person who'd reach out and stop a stranger from falling."

***

One of Saratoga's unique features is the route riders must take to and from the jocks' room. Most tracks keep them separated from the crowd; at Saratoga, they have to walk through it. This means the fans enjoy uncommon access to the jockeys, and jockeys, in turn, get treated like rock stars.

Jockeys have an unquestionable allure, emerging as a group from the jock's room. The bright silks make them as eye-catching as peacocks, and they cut a dashing picture in their snug white pants and shining black boots. They walk with a distinct swagger--an insouciant, daredevil air that increases if one of them twirls his whip, as someone invariably does. The race has not been run yet, and every one of them believes he--or she--is going out to win. They are high on the possibility of triumph, anticipating the thrill of speed and competition, and don't give a thought to the ambulance that will follow them around the track every step of the way.  


They are cloaked in romance and danger, and people respond to it.

At Saratoga, most often it's kids following Wedge and the other jockeys on the walk to the paddock. Usually they want autographs, although sometimes they'll ask for Wedge's goggles after a race, and he never fails to give them what they want. He's a soft touch when it comes to kids and he'll go out of his way to make sure that all who want autographs get them, keeping an eye out for the shy or quiet ones, the ones who might not press close enough or ask loud enough. Sometimes there are older kids, teenagers like he used to be, who blurt out while he's signing their programs that they want to be jockeys too. He gives them his most encouraging smile and wishes them the best of luck. Sometimes it's adults who are eager for an autograph or a selfie with a famous rider, and he accomodates them as best he can.

Sometimes they shake his hand, and there's a phone number or hotel room number in it when he pulls away. It happens with women usually, but sometimes men too. Either way he throws them out. Since his divorce, he's just never found the time or energy to be interested even in a casual hookup. 

Though sometimes he thinks if someone just offered cuddling instead of sex, he might take them up on it.

Every once in awhile, one of the people leaving a number in his hand is an owner's wife. And _that's_ awkward. It used to happen pretty often when he was young. Not as much now, but often enough for Wedge to feel his guard go up when he sees the couple waiting under tree number five with Hux: a man in perhaps his early seventies, whose expensive suit doesn't hide the reality that he's built like a Bavarian cream donut, and his extremely well-turned-out wife, probably about Wedge's age but holding on to thirtysomething with all her might.

A combination most likely to end up with numbers furtively slipped into his hand, based on his experience.

"Mr. Hux." Wedge nods to the trainer politely.

Armitage Hux raises his chin. "Wedge. These are Midnight Praise's owners," he replies. 

Something about Hux has always made Wedge want to yank his collar and twist until his face turns as red as his hair. Maybe it's just the way he won't take off his fucking sunglasses when he talks. Wedge folds his arms, whip tucked where Hux can't see him gripping it tighter and tighter, and keeps his professional face on.

"Dr. and Mrs. Sherman, this is Wedge Antilles, your rider."

Wedge offers them his hand. "How do you do."

"Bill," the doctor says jovially, pumping Wedge's hand.

"Charise," his wife says, giving a pleasant smile. No numbers with her handshake. Wedge relaxes a bit.

"You've a fine-looking colt," he says, nodding to Midnight Praise, a black horse with the number five on his saddlecloth. Wedge feels like he's no good at small talk but you can never go wrong complimenting the owner's horse, and in this case he likes the colt's looks. Midnight Praise is medium-sized and nicely balanced. Legs are a bit slim for Wedge's taste, but they're straight and correct and the colt isn't heavy-bodied. A young, quality mount who's been steadily improving. Tycho made a good catch with this one.

"Thanks!" The doctor then admits he doesn't know anything about horses. "This was all Chari's idea. But we've been having fun, watching him get better each time."

"I never really got over the horse-crazy little girl phase," Charise says, with a surprising and slightly painful amount of self-depreciation, as if it's something she needs to apologize for.

"Nothing wrong with that. I never got over the horse-crazy lad phase," Wedge replies, which gets a laugh from the Shermans. "Just as well, or I'd probably be running my Dad's petrol station now."

Introductions made, Hux turns away from his clients and leans over Wedge, speaking low as the groom walks Praise around in circles about them.

"He doesn't like dirt in his face. Break him sharply and get good position, lying second or third if possible," Hux says. 

"Yes, sir," Wedge replies.

"Go to the outside so you'll be clear, I don't care if you lose a little ground so long as you keep him clear. Stay close but don't move early. He gets lonely on the lead by himself and he'll start looking around for company if you hit the front too soon. Hustle him hard down the lane."

"Yes, sir," Wedge replies again. There's nothing wrong with the instructions, but nothing especially useful either, nothing he didn't already note from reading up on the colt's past performances. Still, he takes it as a good sign that he saw the race shaping up the same way the trainer did. 

He does eye those bandages on the colt's front legs. 

"Equipment change from last time out," Wedge notes quietly. "He came out of his last race sound?"

"A superficial cut," Hux replies. "Nicked himself with his own back hooves when he was gathering at the start. This is just a precaution. He's been cleared by the track vet." 

Wedge nods. That's standard procedure and if the vet has any doubt, they scratch the horse from the race. Period.

"Riders up!" the paddock judge shouts.

Wedge walks up to Praise, takes hold of the reins with his left hand, his right hand on the saddle. Hux gives him a leg up. The moment he lands on the horse's back, he feels it.

_Flinch._

It's so subtle as to almost not be there. If Wedge didn't have almost forty years of experience in the saddle, he might not have noticed. It's almost nothing at all, but a vague sense of _wrongness_ that makes him frown, looking down at the colt's near side. He can't see anything but the slab of glossy black shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Hux asks.

Wedge looks at Hux--wishing he'd take the sunglasses off so he could look him in the eye. 

"Thought I felt something."

Hux strides alongside, keeping pace with the groom. "Such as?"

"I thought he buckled a bit there for a moment." He pauses. "I'm not feeling anything odd now," he admits. The colt's stride is smooth and he doesn't seem to be favoring any particular leg.

"Then clearly you were mistaken," Hux replies.

 _Listen, you bawbag, I won my first Eclipse when you were but a glint in the milkman's eye and I know what I felt_...it's all right there, on the tip of Wedge's tongue, fighting restraint like a horse that wants to run. He holds it back, and the groom hands Midnight Praise off to the lead pony.

Only four mounts today, and this is his best shot to win.

First Order has one of the biggest stables at the meet, full of horses owned by people like the Shermans--enthusiastic novices who can afford to buy quality and then hire a top stable to train it, not realizing that the stable's success is a matter of sheer volume rather than better training methods. He can't afford to alienate First Order, simply because they have too many good horses in the barn.

But as they leave the paddock, and parade down the chute to the track, Wedge waits. Even as he knots his reins and puts his feet in the irons, just like he would for any other race, he waits. He listens, and feels, hyper-alert for any sign of discomfort, any irregularity in stride, any indication that the flinch happens again. 

The horse could be his best shot to ride a winner today...or an accident ready to happen.

Midnight Praise walks calmly in the post parade, not kicking up a fuss or sweating, nor does he come across as dull. He seems bright and alert, looking all about, and he strides out willingly when Wedge urges him into a trot. His strides come in an easy, swinging diagonal, no hitches or hops.

The lead pony lets them go for their warmup, and Wedge pushes the colt on to a canter, letting the colt extend slowly and stretch his muscles until he's striding out smooth and easy.

Then he reins him in, back to a trot.

_Flinch. Flinch._

There it is. Stretched and warmed up, whatever soreness was lying in wait is aggravated now, and showing itself. 

"I need the vet," he calls to an outrider. "Number five's favoring his near fore."

Midnight Praise is going to be a late scratch. Wedge knows it now. 

He also knows that he can kiss any other First Order mounts goodbye for this meet.

***

Normally Tycho can convince Wedge to go to dinner out at a proper restaurant with him and Winter, to celebrate opening day at Saratoga; when he sees the look on his friend's face as he emerges from the jockey's room at the end of the day, he suggests they grab a quick bite at the track cafeteria instead. Wedge agrees, and Tycho texts Winter to let her know it's going to be a post mortem rather than a celebration.

 _ **Pity me, with my soggy chicken Ceasar wrap and a side of doom and gloom,**_ he writes to her. 

_**I'll order a pizza,**_ Winter replies. 

They leave the busy cafeteria behind to eat outside, finding a quiet spot near one of the barns. The afternoon's heat has subsided, with twilight setting in and an early evening breeze cooling the shedrows, stirring the long bandage strips that have been hung up to dry outside one of the stalls, as if the Mummy has been doing his laundry. The backside is calm now, the horses full and sleepy after their evening feed. 

It would be a lovely evening if there were more cheerful things to talk about.

"You probably would've won the seventh race if that filly had just been able to hold on a little bit longer," Tycho says, trying to put the best face on the day. "At least we finished in the money."

"True...it could've been worse," Wedge sighs, idly poking through what might be the saddest grilled chicken salad that Tycho has ever seen. 

"I'm sorry about Midnight Praise. I was wrong about that one."

"Wasn't your fault, Tych."

"I put my ear to the ground. It's a tendon. Not too bad, but he needs rest. You did the right thing."

Wedge raises his eyebrows. "Glad he's okay. Don't suppose we'll pick him up next time he goes out though."

"No...I think that ship's sailed," Tycho admits. He decides not to repeat exactly what Hux told him after the scratch. It's enough to know Wedge won't be picking up any more First Order mounts, not on the East Coast anyway. "And uh...I heard from Pletcher. He's going with Ortiz."

Wedge sighs. "It's going to be a _long_ summer."

"Nah, this is just a run of bad luck. Things'll turn around, they always do." He hesitates, wondering if he should bring up the next subject--then decides what the hell, the evening is already a wash. "We have an interview request."

"I don't talk to the press, Tych. You know that." Wedge shuts the lid on the salad and chucks it in the garbage bin. 

"It's not the press, it's a blogger." Tycho considers the other half of his soggy wrap, and thinks about pizza at home. The wrap promptly follows the salad box.

"They're all the same."

"It wouldn't kill you."

"Fuck those vultures," Wedge says tiredly. "Seriously, fuck them. They can all just fuck off and when they get there, fuck off some more."

Tycho pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing. "Wedge, it's been over thirty years. Most of those guys are dead or retired now. These days, you can't even find real racing journalists anymore, it's someone from the football or baseball beat, getting the short straw and they have to cover some horseracing event."

Wedge's brows draw down in angry, heavy lines over his eyes, and he speaks with some fire now, simmering resentment cracking the surface of his calm. "Where was their journalistic integrity when they were destroying Luke?" He takes a deep breath. "I can put aside what they did to me. I can't forgive what they did to him."

"I get it, Wedge. I was there, remember? But look--this blogger, she wasn't even alive when it all went down--"

"No press. No exceptions." 

Tycho just looks at him steadily. Wedge groans and drags his palms down his face, rubbing slowly, before letting them drop against the rail. They stand there in silence for a few minutes, watching the sky darken. An evening breeze ruffles their hair. Horses nicker in the barn behind them, an equine roll call going up and down the row.

Finally Wedge speaks again, low and bitter. "Luke was the best thing that happened to the sport since Secretariat. Even better than Stevie. He was the best thing that happened to them--those front office shills and racing journalists." Tycho's silent nod only encourages him. "If it had been my sister instead of me, nobody would've cared."

"It was a different time," Tycho points out softly. 

"Is it so different now? Would you tell some young lad the backside's a great place to be out?"

Tycho says nothing. Wedge seems to struggle for another minute, his entire body agitated and on the verge of exploding into more words but then pulling them back in--shifting his weight, clenching and unclenching his hands, swinging one arm back and forth as if he wants to hit something. When the words finally come, they're a whisper, not a storm, but his voice breaks on them anyway.

"He was perfect. Not just as a jockey, but a complete horseman--he was perfect. And he saw the best in--people. Not just horses. Made you want to live up to what he saw in you."

Tycho's hand clamps down on Wedge's shoulder, steadying. "I know." Two words, but they're heavy with understanding and sympathy and sorrow.

"They killed him. They broke his heart and killed him, sure as they killed his horses."

Tycho shakes his head, although what he really wants to do is shake Wedge. "Now you're just being ridiculous. Luke is very much alive."

"Not doing what he was _meant_ to do."

Tycho weighs his response for a moment, then decides it has to be said, no matter if it sets his friend off or not. "Isn't that for him to decide? Who the hell are you to say what he's meant to do?" 

The break comes, as Tycho expects--but it's Wedge pulling away from him and stepping back, rather than shoving Tycho. Wedge stands there breathing hard for a few moments, his face tight with anger, and Tycho takes advantage of the silence.

"He's alive. And you're alive. That's _something,_ Wedge. Give it a chance and maybe you'll see the guy you fell in love with is still there."

Wedge backs up slowly. He pivots and walks away, head bowed, shoulders slouched but stiff, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans as if to keep them from punching things at random. 

Tycho sighs and pulls out his phone, texting Winter to let her know he'll be later than he originally thought.

***

One of the night watchmen on the shedrow has a radio tuned low to a classic rock station, and because the universe has a sick sense of humor, it's playing the Stones. "Wild Horses." Wedge is tempted to keep walking. Instead the familiar, yearning song pulls him to a halt in the shadows, and he sags against a post. Every pain in his body that he's ignored today suddenly asserts itself with a vengeance; his skin aches with loneliness, aches to be touched kindly; his heart cries like the muted guitar, a soul-pain that suddenly turns physical, making him gasp for breath.

If there's one tune that's the fucking soundtrack of his time with Luke Skywalker, this is it. 

It was on the radio during their first date--decompressing after a near-disaster by talking for hours at the beach. It was on the radio after their memorable ride in the desert; during a sweaty afternoon in a third-floor garret; in a swank hotel penthouse in New York. It's the first thing he remembers hearing in the hospital as he slowly emerged from a coma--this song, and Luke's voice, telling him with unwavering faith that he was going to get better.

(Even now, it floors him to think about how poor his prognosis had been after the spill on Tantive, and that Luke knew it, and the dead certainty in his voice was nothing more than sheer will.)

Tycho's usually right about things, but he's off about this.

Not the part about Luke being the same person Wedge fell in love with. Of course the man Wedge loved is still there. Wedge has no doubt about that. Luke is still the loving, kind, utterly good-hearted person he always was, because that's who he _is_. Same as the sun _is,_ even when there's rain, or it's the middle of the night.

The press just makes a handy scapegoat. While they were a major player in the whole disaster, they were not solely to blame for the end of Luke's career in racing; there were other factors.

The end of Luke and Wedge, though...Wedge knows in his heart that was his doing. They'd argued back and forth for months and both said things they regretted, but it was he who made the choice to get on a plane back to Scotland. In the end he was the one who'd left, despite all his talk about fighting for what you love and not giving up.

And that's the part Tycho's got wrong. It's not that he's afraid Luke has changed. He's simply afraid to face him again. How can he--after leaving him, giving up, running away? When Luke needed him?

On the radio, Mick keeps singing--that imperfectly creaky, perfectly soulful voice--while Keith's guitar line curls and slides around the lyrics like an alley cat behind a juke joint.

"No sweeping exits or offstage lines  
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind..."

_Except that I did. I did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of jockey stardom at Saratoga: here's crowd favorite Frankie Dettori interacting with the fans. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMc3vDSPZ9I
> 
>  
> 
> There are many accounts of jockeys trying to help one another avoid disaster and Arturo's experience is inspired by one described by Laura Hillenbrand in her book _Seabiscuit: An American Legend_. Here is a video of a similar one-handed catch of a falling rider:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kemQlbjxdig


End file.
